Legion
by Onias
Summary: They thought they knew everything that had happened before and after the invasion. They were wrong. Dark forces remain on Earth pursuing their own twisted agenda. Rated T for possible violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Undisclosed location in Siberia, U.S.S.R.**

**August 24, 1991**

_20:15 IRKST _

Fewer than a hundred people knew of this airfield's existence. Fewer still its location, and the number who could even guess its true purpose – hidden even from its caretakers - was less than ten. Though located deep inside a vast forest of pine, it could, of course, be seen by satellite, but its small size and seeming lack of strategic value made it utterly indistinguishable from the myriads of other, more complex installations maintained by the Soviet Air Forces. No outside observer would have had cause to give it a second glance.

As such, there was no one – inside or outside the Soviet Union – who would have noticed the small entourage of vehicles that had just arrived at the field. Had they done so, many would have raised their eyebrows at the presence of a black Zil limousine, the unmistakable symbol of the Party ruling elite. Even then, few would have guessed that it carried a high-ranking officer of the Scientific and Technical Directorate, a little-known but highly integral component of the Committee for State Security – better known and feared both at home and abroad as the KGB.

The officer's name was General Dmitry Alexandreyevich Royek. Few outside his immediate circle had heard the name. But everyone who did inevitably learned to fear it. With this, the obscure general was content. He held no craving whatsoever for the obvious trappings of fame and greatness, never seeking any of the higher positions offered by the Soviet system nor venturing outside his appointed sphere in any way. That had been the downfall of fools like Kryuchkov and the rest of his quixotic co-conspirators. True power, as he had always known, was exercised from the shadows. An enemy could not destroy what he could not see. The final proof of that dictum was demonstrated by the fact that he himself continued to stand untouched while virtually all of his fellow comrades had fallen.

For most in Russia's high places, the last hope for the Soviet state had died just hours earlier with Gorbachev's televised resignation as General Secretary of the CPSU. Royek, however, and others like him had seen the handwriting on the wall long before when concepts like "_glasnost"_ and "_perestroika"_ entered the public vocabulary for the first time. Which was, of course, why his contingency plan been meticulously drawn up and organized to the very last detail starting in 1988. Everything from the tools, funds, infrastructure, operatives, and contacts had been fully in place for the last three years, patiently awaiting the encrypted signal Royek had sent to Pyonyang from his Yasenovo dacha at 8:00 p.m. on August 21. All the necessary facilities prepared by their North Korean comrades now stood ready for the personnel and equipment they would be receiving in a continuous stream over the next 72 hours. The endeavor he had started twenty years ago would continue on by other means.

The general stepped outside his black Zil limousine and proceeded up the boarding ramp of the awaiting turbojet airplane recently unveiled from its camouflaged hangar, never giving more than a cursory glance to the military attendants standing at attention around him. Ramrod-straight in his blue KGB uniform with the cap beneath the right arm, he resembled nothing so much as a Platonic archetype of the Chekist ideal as defined by Lenin and Dzherzinsky. Tall, strong, black-haired and steel-eyed, his gaze was full of purpose, never wavering to the right or the left. His thin, sallow face was that of an ascetic, every thought bent to the holy cause he served.

Very few, however, even among those he counted as friends and allies, could have guessed his true conception of that cause or how far he would go to fulfill it.

Once the general had stepped onboard the jet, the back doors of the armored vehicle beside his limousine burst open to unleash a squad of no less than four black-clad commandoes. These soldiers, a far different breed from the KGB regulars guarding the plane and limousine, immediately dropped into battle-ready crouches and established a perimeter with their silenced AS Val assault rifles. Two more emerged from the vehicle's interior, each grasping the right and left arms, respectively, of a chained and hooded prisoner who was immediately dragged the short distance to Royek's jet. Only after the door had been safely latched behind the two men and their captive did the other four visibly relax, though keeping their weapons at the ready. These watched with gazes of steel as the plane picked up speed down the runway before lifting off to begin its long journey to the Far East. They then turned around to carry out the next phase of their orders.

It was swiftly executed with neither warning nor the slightest twinge of conscience. There were several simultaneous flashes of gunfire from four barrels as the six military and civilian attendants' bodies were ripped apart with astonishing precision, their cries of shock and pain abruptly cut short.

Had anyone with sufficient knowledge been around to observe the scene, the identity of the soldiers would now have been irrevocably confirmed. _Osnaz_. Part of the KGB's secret network of paramilitary killers who had absorbed Leninist ideology in its most purified and merciless form. Men selected from an exclusive pool of highly-trained candidates precisely for their utter ruthlessness and willingness to follow any order without question. Quick, methodical, and ghost-like when necessary, they would leave behind no evidence of what had taken place today. Nor would they give a second thought to this mission – one among many – as they faded back into the regular military units from which they had been drawn, ready to be called upon again at a moment's notice.

* * *

Royek allowed himself a rare moment of reflection as he gazed out the window of the plane. The sun had set only a few minutes before but already he could discern the faint light of stars making their first appearance in the twilight sky. He was not above contemplating Nature's beauty on certain occasions, something quite contrary to the image of iron and steel that he kept in place before subordinates. But then, all true warriors were poets – what was war, after all, but the highest form of poetry? The stars were beautiful to him even now. Yet at the same time they were pregnant with a meaning that only a precious few human beings beside himself fully understood.

The KGB general shifted his eyes to take in the prisoner – still chained, hooded, and under armed guard not 10 feet away. Dressed in the gray, dirtied coveralls of a Gulag _zek_, the man was on his knees with both arms tightly bound behind him, his head drooping forward to the deck. There was no sign of life save for the steady, shallow rhythm of his breathing as the lungs went through their preprogrammed motions. He had been heavily drugged beforehand and was, for all intents and purposes, completely unaware of all that was taking place around him. There was zero probability of his posing any threat to himself or others. But one took no chances whatsoever when transporting a living, breathing prize whose value exceeded any weapon, resource or secret existing on the face of the earth.

Royek turned back to the window, fresh anticipation building inside him. In the end, what did Russia matter compared to those endless beacons of light that ruled the night-time sky?

The stars. So vast and infinite.

And as he had known for the past twenty years, so very much alive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Los Angeles, California**

**October 22, 20_**

_21:07 p.m. PST_

Watching the city at this hour, one could almost believe that the better part of the last decade had never occurred. Such were the thoughts that went through Dylan Reeves' mind as he silently regarded the traffic going to and fro beneath the window of his hotel room - obtained under an assumed identity. It had been years since he had been able to observe Los Angeles (or almost any other city for that matter) from such a vantage point, having spent most of his time roving from place to place on the fringes of civilization. The sun had gone down some time before, and the city had accordingly transformed into an ocean of electric light, the streets still full and busy as its inhabitants went about their various pursuits in a sort of spontaneous harmony. Terminal Island shone like a sea of torches just across San Pedro Harbor.

Its inhabitants.

Despite a logical certainty that he was, in fact, completely safe and in virtually the last place any pursuers would be likely to search, Reeves gave an involuntary glance at the dead-bolted door several yards behind him. At the same time, his right hand fingered the grip of the Sig-Sauer P226 holstered over his left shoulder. From a rational standpoint, he was not in the least expecting the door to suddenly be kicked off its hinges and admit the team of armed assailants his mind was currently picturing. But a man did not lightly dismiss instincts that had kept him alive through five years as a Marine sniper, ten as a CIA operative, and seven so far as a fugitive on the run.

Freshly satisfied that his current safety – however temporary – was assured, Reeves turned away from the door and indulged in a few more musings over the changed world just outside his window. Seven years after the fact, there were still times, such as now, when he felt the need to pinch himself as a reminder that it had all really happened.

He feared the invaders, of course, with all the inborn instincts of self-preservation. Highly practiced and familiar with the use of deadly force, he was willing to kill any one of them in a heartbeat if genuinely threatened. Yet even in the very beginning he had not been able to hate them. Could any human being, after all, truly _hate_ something that was completely Other, even if clothed in a human skin? One could fear, even desire to destroy, a dangerous animal. But hatred? The creature was simply obeying its own nature, for which it could be neither praised nor condemned. One simply did what was necessary to stay alive.

Even his fear had lessened over the years as the newcomers changed from an unknown terror to a quantifiable factor in his calculations of survival. He had observed them from a distance at first, gradually moving closer and eventually blending in completely for short periods as he uncovered the basic patterns of their existence. In those few times when the ever-present danger could be forgotten, he was truly fascinated, even awestruck, by the things he learned.

At first, he had identified them all with the vanguard of armed hunters whose pursuit he had evaded for seven years. Those, he now knew, were a sort of warrior caste, highly atypical among their kind for their aggressive methods."Seekers" they were called. An order set apart to provide a constant supply of bodies for their brethren, most of who were repulsed by even the thought of physical force. Violence was something that characterized the humans they replaced and of which they desired no part. Had not the Seekers' presence given the lie to such a thought, it was easy to believe that pacifism was immutably hardwired into their being. On each world they had taken, they called themselves by a different name, borrowing from the languages of their hosts. Here it was no different. The English word was "soul". Presumably that meant the German was _seele_, the French _ame, _the Spanish _alma_, and so on and so forth throughout every tongue currently spoken.

Tired of standing, Reeves drew the curtains over the window and sat down on one of the room's two beds. Picking up the remote, he switched on the flatscreen on the far wall and began steadily surfing through the channels, habitually pausing for several seconds at each of the few remaining news networks. As per usual these days, there was virtually nothing of either urgency or interest – least of all in global affairs. What all of Earth's utopian dreamers for the last six thousand years had desired with ardent but continually frustrated longing, these beings had achieved in less than a decade. Wars were nonexistent (occasional skirmishes with the near-extinct pockets of human resistance didn't count – and the last of those had ceased some time before). Borders a mere formality. All infectious diseases wiped out. Hunger eradicated. Poverty a memory. Crime unheard of. Murder unthinkable. All minor – for there were no major – disputes resolved with lightning speed. By means he still could not clearly understand, they had even conquered the formerly iron-clad laws of economics by abolishing monetary currency itself.

For all intents and purposes, Earth had come full circle back to Eden. In earlier days, virtually every right-thinking person would have called it a Good Thing. And, of course, when it came to Good Things, trade-offs didn't matter – until they were actually made.

Reeves switched off the TV – cutting short a chattering weatherwoman – and studied his own image in the opposite wall's mirror. The last seven years hadn't exactly been good to him, but it helped that he'd gotten rid of the facial scarring and more obvious wrinkles (courtesy of an alien miracle cream lifted at an opportune moment). The streaks of gray hair were something that hadn't been there before, but vanity was currently the last thing on his list of priorities. The weathered Charles Bronson cast of his face was still there, but it fit nicely with his cover as a veteran Seeker who'd come in with the first wave. He was pleased to see the light reflect flawlessly off the contact lenses that he only took out for sleep and always kept within arm's reach for speedy insertion.

He reached a hand toward the back of his neck and smiled upon feeling the raised line of skin. He was particularly proud of that piece of his disguise, accomplished with the skill of a contortionist and the pain tolerance of a battle-hardened Marine. A man could become anyone or anything he wanted once he learned how to use the tools at hand. He wondered often if any other survivors had managed to do the same.

Abruptly, Reeves swung his legs over the side of the bed, stood up, and grabbed the chair at the small desk in the corner, flipping open his laptop. Rest was a necessary method for recovering equilibrium but it could only be taken in brief stretches. He had come back to Los Angeles for a very specific purpose, and he wasn't about to be distracted now.

He slipped on a pair of headphones, placed the flash drive in the port, and proceeded to play the 40-second audio file he had listened to again and again every day for the last seven years. By now he could literally repeat the words backwards in his sleep and knew by heart every detail of the voice patterns displayed on the laptop screen. Telling him everything and yet nothing, the cryptic message had saved his life. It was also the one factor that made it impossible for him to do what virtually any other man with his skills and in his circumstances would have done: give up the cause, stop running, and live out the rest of his natural life under the false identity he'd created. Was there really any use, after all, in fighting for a country that no longer existed - much less a world that had ended?

Reeves gave another superstitious glance at the door and fingered the Sig Sauer once more. Ironically, the success of the invasion meant that guns and weaponry were easier to obtain than ever before. On his first visit to one of the Supply Centers that had since replaced retail outlets, he'd been astonished to see – in New York of all places (!) - military grade handguns, rifles, and ammunition freely available right next to various consumer products. Apparently the end of the initial struggle meant that the Seekers now obtained the tools of their craft through the exact same channels as the rest of the population. Given that Seekers were the only souls who used weapons and that the general populace (as far as anyone knew) practiced perfect honesty, it was apparently assumed that anyone who purchased weaponry was automatically a Seeker. Even basic background checks and licensing processes were no longer used. Nor had he himself been asked for any form of photo identification whatsoever when he procured the Sig Sauer, a weapon he could easily turn on any one of them in an instant.

The sheer naiveté – or was it blind arrogance (?) - of these beings could be truly breathtaking at times. It was enough to make him fear for their safety.

_Their _safety.

The sheer absurdity of his entire situation stayed with him as he gathered up his essential equipment, pulled on a leather jacket to conceal his holster and bulletproof vest, and allowed the door to lock behind him as he stepped outside into the hallway. Against all logic, sense, natural order, and basic instinct, this is what it had ultimately come to. His country was gone. What little family he had ever had was erased. All the evidence so far said that his _species _was as good as extinct. He was now in constant danger from invaders that would not hesitate to send his mind to oblivion in order to possess his body.

And _they _were the ones he was trying to protect.

* * *

"That's him. I'm sure of it. It looks like he's finally leaving the hotel."

"Should his room be searched?"

"All we have right now is a concerned call. We don't invade anyone's privacy until we have something more concrete to go on. Probable cause is one of the things on this world we're keeping intact."

The male Seeker, Singer of Wondrous Themes, spoke the words calmly and evenly, his tone betraying not a hint of reproach. But his counterpart, Jenna, only two months into her Calling since the end of training and the junior member of their partnership, couldn't help but feel the hint of shame that didn't show on her face. Of course they weren't about to do anything quite so invasive. For all they knew right now, the man they were watching could be nothing more than a soul who was still adjusting to his host and had experienced a lapse of some sort.

It was far too human of her to have spoken with such impulsiveness.

She reflexively opened and closed the fingers on her body's right hand. She never took her eyes off the black-clad man that she and her partner were observing from their Suburban on the opposite end of the Sunrise Hotel parking lot. She had arrived on Earth only a year ago from the Fire World. Since that time, she had largely adjusted to the new sensations and compulsions which had at first been nearly overwhelming. But there were still times, such as now, when her host's natural instincts tended to come out. The Healers had told her to expect this from time to time. Even the oldest and most experienced souls had little in their previous lives to prepare them for the sheer power of human bodies.

But it still galled her that she couldn't maintain better control. Particularly when faced with this kind of danger.

The license plate confirmed their quarry's identity as he slipped into the jeep Wrangler they had been watching for the past three hours. The vehicle immediately came to life a second after he closed the door, proceeding steadily out of the parking lot before turning right onto West Fifth. Adhering to procedure, Singer radioed ahead to the second observation vehicle once he confirmed that the subject was heading north on South Harbor Boulevard. Only then did he start the ignition on their Suburban and begin to follow at a safe distance. He stared straight ahead in a focused calm, his blue-steel complexion making him almost invisible in the darkness beside his lighter-skinned partner.

The Wrangler continued straight north for about five minutes before turning east onto the Vincent Thomas Bridge toward Terminal Island. Jenna mentally took note of its course as she juggled several possible scenarios inside her head at once, fueled by the excess adrenaline coursing through her body's veins. The Seekers rarely had occasion to undertake such pursuits any longer, and she herself had never been a part of one. The training had done much to prepare her, but in this Calling there was no substitute for experience.

Hopefully, none would be needed tonight.

* * *

It was rather curious, Reeves thought as he took in the island from the bridge, that the LAXT terminal and its associated infrastructure had been left intact by the newcomers. As essential as coal, petroleum and other resources like them were to industrial society, he knew that they must have had the technology for something more efficient. He had seen their ships. Sleek, flawlessly-designed marvels that crisscrossed the skies in ghost-like silence, propelled by an energy source that must have been as alien as its creators.

Reeves briefly remembered a book by Eric Drexler he had borrowed years ago from an analyst - and close friend - who worked in the CIA's Red Cell. Provocatively titled _Engines of Creation_, it described technological marvels expected to become possible through molecular manufacturing: rocket engines and ship components grown molecule by molecule in liquid vats, producing constructs almost organic in their fluidity. Incredibly lightweight and yet durable beyond the densest of naturally occurring elements. It certainly seemed to describe these ships, one of only a few obvious specimens of machinery the souls had brought with them from another world.

It all raised some rather perplexing – though interesting – questions. For all that had changed on earth with these beings' arrival, there was even more that stayed the same. The souls continued most of the patterns followed by their human precursors sometimes to a baffling extent. There were the obvious changes of course, such as the disappearance of crime, war, disease, hunger, and even aggression itself. But in the strictly neutral, benign things, there had been virtually no alteration whatsoever. Even technology had remained relatively unaltered – almost stagnant, even - aside from the new medicines and spacecraft they had brought with them – and all the evidence indicated that these had not been made on earth.

Could it be that there was a limit to how much knowledge they could transfer between bodies? Perhaps on every world they were forced to make do with whatever arts and sciences had been the most familiar to the species they utilized as hosts? He remembered a few snatches of conversation he had picked up during one of his rare forays into a public space. Several of the souls had been reminiscing about experiences on previous worlds, describing how they had obtained nourishment, constructed shelters, produced offspring. One of them spoke of a planet covered with ice and snow, great cities carved by hand out of massive blocks of ice. Although fascinating to hear, it was a remarkably pre-modern existence even by human standards, and he would have expected a species as advanced as theirs to find it even more so.

But the more he heard and saw of them, the more he had to wonder: perhaps these beings did not come to change the worlds they took, but rather to experience them?

That was a thought to be explored at another, safer time.

He had been aware of his pursuers ever since he had pulled out the parking lot at the hotel. It was an immediate signal that something had gone wrong with his façade. Somewhere he had let himself become overconfident, careless. Mentally, he made a note to review every action he had taken that day and the one before to find some indication of where things had broken down. At the moment, however, what was done was done – the only question now was how to deal with the consequences.

So far, he had spotted only one vehicle, a Suburban, but he knew there could be another. As a man who had both undertaken and been subject to many such pursuits during his career, Reeves had to shake his head at how sloppy and obvious it was, even at this time of night. How long had it been since these Seekers had encountered a true enemy? Three years? Four? If this was truly the current pinnacle of their craft then victory had been their undoing.

Reeves maintained the steady calm inculcated through his many years in the field, only slightly tightening his hands on the wheel in a concession to adrenaline. Already he was calculating the alternate route he would be taking to throw them off his trail, old instincts coming to the fore once again. Terminal Island had a few advantages in a situation like this. The relative lack of parallel roads would make it difficult for a second surveillance vehicle to accompany the first without being spotted, and there were enough twists and turns to be taken advantage of by a resourceful enough man. On the other hand there were only three roads off the island, each of which could conceal another pursuer that would spot him as soon as came through. That would be problematic.

None of it worried him. He had done it all before.

* * *

"He's taking the first exit south toward Ferry Street." Jenna spoke into the radio as Singer continued to drive, his narrowed eyes fixed on the Wrangler just a few cars ahead of them. He then proceeded to turn onto the exit himself. The second surveillance car, several yards behind them now, would continue down Vincent Thomas Bridge then double back after turning onto Navy Way. Right now, the two main possibilities were that the subject would be turning east onto Terminal Way or west onto South Seaside Avenue. If the former, the second vehicle would catch a glimpse of him as it was coming in the opposite direction. The latter offered better opportunity for further surveillance, leading to an area comparatively rich in parallel roads and vehicular activity, allowing both trackers a better chance of remaining unseen.

Unfortunately, their quarry was not cooperating. Rather than continue towards either route, he abruptly cut the pursuit short by pulling into the parking lot of the Federal Maritime Commission. They themselves had no choice but to continue down Ferry Street rather than risk burning their cover. Both Seekers observed that he was switching off his vehicle as they drove past. That action drastically increased the possibility that he either worked there or had some business to attend to for several minutes – likely hours. Jenna dutifully radioed in both the subject's status and their own, but couldn't help feeling a strange emptiness. That bothered her. She shouldn't have been looking _forward_ to a drawn-out chase, ultimately ending in a catch. They had been hoping from the very beginning to avoid any kind of confrontation, hoping that that the man they were observing was just another soul.

Why did she feel as if something was not yet complete?

* * *

From the darkness of his vehicle Reeves observed the Suburban drive on past his position down Ferry Street until it had exited his line of vision. What he would do now was dangerous and foolhardy in most circumstances, but it would provide the newly-required stealth.

Reaching into the glove compartment, he removed yet another comparatively recent acquisition from the Supply Center's treasure trove, pulling it over his head and down over both eyes. His vision instantly transformed into a field of gray that illuminated every object otherwise hidden by the night-time darkness. During his time as a sniper, he had usually used scopes like this rather than goggles, but the effect would be the same.

Turning his keys in the ignition, he brought the Wrangler to life once more – this time with the exception of the headlights. He then proceeded to pull out of the parking lot and back onto Ferry Street – mercifully free of traffic – his path illuminated only by the thermal imaging goggles pulled down over both eyes.

He knew that this technique was nowhere near as effective as it was described in urban legends. The vehicle could still be spotted by other motorists or passersby, although it greatly increased the odds of a collision. But the lack of headlights would also make it much harder to pinpoint from a distance and easier to disappear into any nearby shadows, of which the island offered plenty at this time of night.

Reeves continued to drive in this manner eastward down Terminal Way, eventually cutting across an avenue that bore his name before turning right onto Nimitz Road, finally on course toward his final destination. For the moment, he saw no more sign of his pursuers. But he knew better than to think they would give up the chase so easily. That made it essential to find what he was looking for quickly and exit in as good a time. Terminal was richer in hiding places than many other locations, but he wasn't about to let himself be trapped there.

Almost unconsciously, his right hand again caressed the handle of the insurance policy holstered under his jacket. Like actual life insurance, he hoped he wouldn't have to use it tonight.

* * *

"Are you glad you followed my advice?"

"I will say I wasn't quite expecting _that_."

From their vehicle's hiding place at the edge of Eldridge Street, both Jenna and Singer had observed the Wrangler speed past them sans headlights, observing through binoculars as it continued through the intersection where Ferry Street seamlessly merged into Terminal Way. They had immediately radioed to the second vehicle, which was now back on Vincent Thomas Bridge heading towards Navy Way – the Wrangler's obvious destination at this point.

It had been nothing more than a hunch on Jenna's part, and one that sparked a briefly raised eyebrow on Singer's. He had, nevertheless cooperated without the slightest bit of resistance in pulling into Eldridge and shutting off the ignition and headlights. His young counterpart had now doubtless gained a new respect in his eyes from the accuracy of her assessment. The subject's action in turning into the FMC parking lot indicated one of two things: 1) he had legitimate business at the building and nothing to hide or 2) he had everything to hide and knew that he was being followed.

Both of them, however, were taken aback to see the vehicle speed past them as it did without the aid of any external illumination. That confirmed irrevocably that their assignment tonight was not based on a false alarm. None of them had ever observed a soul do anything so deliberately reckless. They could both see, however, the twisted sense it made from a fugitive's point of view. He had apparently been willing to operate in the open as long as he believed his disguise was working. Now that he understood this was no longer the case, he had switched tactics in favor of simple camouflage.

They waited longer this time than they had when the Wrangler had first pulled out the hotel parking lot. The fact that the subject now knew he was being followed changed the rules of the game drastically. There was a very real chance they be experiencing a full-fledged pursuit tonight. And if this man's recent action was any clue to his propensities…

Jenna took a moment to chamber a round into the Glock holstered beneath her jacket. Until tonight she had never used the weapon outside of target practice. It was more and more becoming a mere formality in these days of peace. She had been told that the average Seeker could go over a year without ever having occasion to utilize their sidearm for its intended purpose. Even when such occasions presented themselves, the main object was still to capture a live body rather than take down a threat. Though adult hosts were no longer provided to the general population, their minds were always probed for information before being discarded. One human would almost always reveal the way to more.

But they would never willingly be taken alive – and they virtually always tried to take as many of her kind with them as possible.

* * *

Reeves continued to drive down Terminal Way with his vehicle shrouded in total darkness, taking care to maintain a wide berth from any heat signatures picked up by his goggles. He knew now that any one of them could be a pursuer. That meant that he would have to work at a faster, less thorough pace than he had originally wanted.

Crossing Navy Way, he drove straight on down the avenue that bore his own name before finally turning right onto Nimitz Road. That took him onto a long, thin leg that jutted out from the rest of the island. Reeves was well familiar with this section, having visited it multiple times. Long Beach Port. He knew it first and foremost as the former home of the Long Beach Naval Complex, long-since decommissioned. Those who came of age in the twenty-first century would have known it as the port-of-call for a major aerospace firm responsible for placing communications satellites in geostationary orbit.

If he found what he was looking for, future generations would know it – for better or worse - as the spot that determined the future of the human race.

* * *

"You better call for backup. He'll be trapped here, but there's a lot of places he could hide."

Jenna dutifully followed her partner's instructions as he silently pulled the Suburban up behind one of the several warehouses facing the Sea Launch mole. The hulking form of the _Odyssey _launching platform rose out of the darkness like a colossus, its height increased by the rocket standing aloft on its deck. Its counterpart, the _Sea Launch Commander _vessel was docked alongside it. Virtually all of the workers and crew readying both craft for their latest upcoming mission were either on shore leave or asleep in their bunks. They were in all likelihood oblivious to the new resident the _Odyssey _had just gained.

Using a pair of thermal binoculars, Jenna and Singer had observed from a distance as their quarry exited his vehicle and proceeded to mount the zig-zagged stepladder leading up one of the platform's pontoons. A rush of images - harvested from the dormant memories of her host – came to the fore of Jenna's mind. Saboteurs, spies, terrorists, and agents of chaos planting bombs, stealing secrets, hijacking vessels both at air and sea.

Singer too was now chambering a round in his own sidearm. He motioned for her to follow as he silently moved forward to the large sea vessel on which the man in black had disappeared. They would both be boarding from opposite ends, hopefully cornering the target between them once they boarded. So far, the subject had not displayed any explicitly violent tendencies, but the air was thick with danger. Such was the Calling of a Seeker. They would face the final death tonight so that other souls would live.

* * *

Once he was on deck, Reeves had a clear view of the platform's most prominent feature - a large hangar which he knew to house a Zenit 3SL rocket carrier approximately 200 feet in length. Its preliminary preparations were virtually complete. It now awaited the beginning of the 11-day voyage that would take it to its launch site on the Equator. As far as anyone new, its cargo would be a new communications satellite to replace part of the aging network currently in orbit.

But if he was right in his calculations, its cargo would be something far, far different.

He knew that he might have had a better chance of finding conclusive evidence had he chosen the _Sea Launch Commander _where the rocket had actually been assembled. But that ship held a far larger crew and far too many places to trap any erstwhile intruders. Though a more difficult place to search, the _Odyssey's _rocket hangar would have to do.

It didn't take him long to find the stairway leading to the hangar's side entrance. It took him no time at all to breach it. Locks and security had long since become a thing of the past in this pacified world. Once inside, he would have found himself in pitch black darkness if it hadn't been for the thermal-imaging goggles he still wore over his eyes. There was also very little room to move. This hangar hadn't been built to accommodate human occupants.

Pressed against the wall, Reeves moved on toward the far end of the hangar, where the launch vehicle housed its cargo. Once he reached the intended point, he stopped and opened one of the pockets on his Kevlar vest. The device he pulled out one was of the very few new pieces of technology the invaders had brought with them beside their medicine and their ships. In appearance, it was almost identical to a handheld mobile computing device, but it functioned more like a gamma ray scintillator.

He momentarily lifted the goggles off of his eyes as he switched on the device, emitting a noticeable glow in the pitch blackness. The screen immediately produced an x-ray-like image of the engines entombed within the rocket's hull from where he held it.

With both hands, he began to move the device over the short length of the rocket within his immediate range, gradually moving up towards the nose section which presumably housed the satellite. Even if he missed something now, the images were being stored in the device's memory, ready for retrieval at any time. That was good, as he was not seeing anything that might raise a red flag at first glance.

Then he reached the tip.

Reeves halted immediately, his erstwhile x-ray machine suspended in the air between his hands with the image frozen in place. He hadn't even fully known exactly what he was looking for when he came. His technical background was minimal, and he knew only the basics of rocketry and propulsion technology – nowhere near enough for him to spot an anomaly on sight. But he did know what a satellite looked like, even folded up into a dormant state. And the image he saw on the screen was not a satellite. It was something else, something he had seen before – something he had prayed never to see again.

He held the device in place for several more seconds, making sure to get a full feed of imagery for analysis once he returned to safety. Then he switched off the machine, replaced it in his pocket, and pulled the goggles back down over his eyes, immediately making his way back to the doorway that had led him into the hangar.

This game had just become far more dangerous than he had ever imagined.

* * *

Jenna kept her breathing even as she moved swiftly from point to point on the platform's deck, her Glock gripped in both hands with the right index finger outside the trigger guard. Her movements were fluid, cat-like, precisely executed. She had less control, however, over her heart rate and the cold dew seeping out of her sweat glands. Though she had rehearsed scenarios just like this multiple times during the course of her training, there was no escaping the sheer reality of the situation. Both she and Singer were now hunters pursuing a dangerous prey – one that could just as easily become a hunter himself.

At the other end of the platform, she could just make out the form of her partner as he proceeded up the stairwell to the rocket hangar' entrance, signaling for her to stay put and cover him. Reaching the top, he took up a position to the left of the door holding his weapon upward in a ready position. Apparently, he had been close enough to see their quarry disappear inside. If so, the man was trapped. He could be taken into custody the minute he stepped outside the door. All they needed to do now was wait.

* * *

"Freeze! Turn around slowly and keep your hands where I can see them."

The voice came out of the darkness to his right as he was closing the hangar door behind him. Reeves gave no reaction or resistance, slipping instead into the instinctive calm that came with his training. He complied with the spoken command, slowly and purposefully turning his body around until he saw the gun barrel leveled at his face.

There was a light click and Reeves instinctively closed his eyes before the flashlight beam – amplified by the goggles he still wore – could blind him. The gunman seemed to hesitate for a moment then spoke again.

"Take off the goggles."

He knew the reason behind the command. This man – obviously a Seeker – wanted to check his eyes against the light. He would comply, but at this point his actions tonight had severely compromised the effectiveness of his disguise.

Using both hands, Reeves pushed the goggles up and off his eyes, leaving them free to look straight into the beam. While it left his vision obscured, he could still discern the Seeker's gun-hand off to the side.

The Seeker stiffened for a split second, clearly shocked at the reflection in his quarry's eyes.

It was all the time Reeves needed.

Still in the action of coming down from his head, his left hand seized the gun barrel, propelling the man's entire arm out and away from his own body. His right hand came up in a vicious punch straight to the man's face. There was a sickening crunch of breaking cartilage, but the Seeker cried out only when the gun was twisted out of his hand, snapping the index finger. The cry was immediately silenced by a well-placed blow behind the ear.

Reeves was already on the move, not even stopping to watch as his opponent's comatose body crumpled to the deck. Hunched down in a stealth position, he kept his newly acquired weapon out in front of him with both hands, already scanning ahead for the second opponent he knew could not be far away. Seekers virtually always worked in pairs or groups. He had been prepared for this kind of eventuality. He always was. But it should have been avoided. This was not how things were supposed to turn out tonight.

He had to end this. Now.

* * *

It took several seconds for Jenna to process the horror she had just witnessed before her training kicked in. From her vantage point behind the platform's two main fuel-holding tanks she immediate stepped out and aimed her Glock at the man proceeding down the stairwell with her partner's weapon.

"Freeze! Drop the gun now!"

The man did not even pause in his flight down the stairs as he lifted the gun and fired several shots in her direction. She took cover as the rounds found their mark several inches from where she'd been standing. A split second later, she returned fire. She was sure that one of her shots found its target. But it didn't matter. From where she was, she could see that her opponent's frame had the tell-tale bulge of a Kevlar vest. In retrospect, it was something she should have noticed from the very beginning. But there was no time for reflection now.

She dropped to the deck as another bullet whizzed overhead. She took a moment to catch her breath before springing up again ready to fire.

But her target was gone.

* * *

Close as his brush with death had been, Reeves had no intention of killing anyone tonight. Every single one of his shots had been meant as warnings only. Just the same, he was not about to have either one of these Seekers following him again. The second would have to be put out of commission along with the first. He could tell from her voice and the way she had handled the weapon that she was obviously the more aggressive – and therefore less experienced – of the pair. In a way, that made her even more dangerous, a loose cannon that could be set off at any time. But it also made her actions far more predictable.

The brief firefight and his subsequent disappearance into the shadows had left her frightened, disoriented. She would immediately begin a search for him now, but it wouldn't be long. He was far closer than she thought.

* * *

Jenna proceeded forward, maintaining a death grip on the Glock she held in front of her like a charm warding off malevolent spirits. She would have jumped at every creak if her pounding heartbeat hadn't drowned out every other sound in her ears. The man had disappeared into the darkness like a ghost. But she knew he couldn't have left the ship. The drop into the water below would have been near-lethal at this height, and she would have heard the clank of running feet if he had taken the ladder. He was still on-board, somewhere in this maze of shadows.

She proceeded from point to point across the platform, clearing each area with her firearm, still held out in front of her like a shield. Images from her hosts' memories and her own training flashed across her eyes. Men conditioned to the limits of human ability to become invisible killers. Sadistic predators who toyed with their prey in deadly games before the kill.

Before the kill…

Something flashed in her mind. An intuitive, even superstitious reaction of which none of her previous hosts had even been capable.

Her very perception of time seemed to slow as she whirled opposite of the direction she had been traveling, bringing her Glock to bear.

The tall dark form stepped out from the shadows to level his weapon as close to her forehead as she held her own to his.

It seemed as if time itself ceased to move forward as they stood frozen in position, without movement, without breath. Each one holding death to the other's face.

The man stared straight at her, his expression unreadable beneath the thermal goggles covering his eyes. That, at least, explained how he had been able to make the drive out here with no headlights and proceed to track her every move the way he had. But it was typical of her luck today that she still wasn't able to get a good luck at his face even from this range.

It was he who first broke the silence.

"I don't want to kill you if I don't have to. We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

The unexpected sound of the calm, baritone voice caused a rush of blood through her ears, but she didn't waver from her stance. Jenna replied with far more confidence than she felt.

"This is ending only one way. You are going to put down that weapon and come with me."

She could discern just the faintest twinge upward at the corner of his mouth. It almost looked like a smirk.

"I could say the exact same thing to you, Sweetheart. There's just one difference. I've been in this business since before you even heard of this planet. The only reason you're alive right now is because I didn't intend to kill you. If you try to kill me right now, you will die. If I decide to kill you, there won't be any _trying _involved."

The words he spoke were utterly dispassionate, as if he stated a fact as verifiable as a universal law of physics. Jenna felt a hole open up in her stomach and a cold chill work its way down through each of her vertebrae.

The man's goggled stare continued to bore straight into her eyes. "Your call."

The air was suddenly split with the shrill cry of sirens as Jenna and Singer's long-awaited backup arrived at the harbor in a squadron of black-and-white vehicles flashing multi-colored lights.

The sound was enough to distract her for just an instant - which was all he needed.

She tried to resist too late as he brought his weapon down on both of the arms with which she held her own. His body was all at once upon hers. There was a burst of blinding pain. Then… there was nothing.

* * *

Reeves swept up the limp body of his assailant in a cradle-hold and began running toward the ramp in a quick even stride, his weapon still clasped in his right hand. Hers had immediately clattered to the deck after he hit the nerve on her neck. He already had two guns now and wasn't about to waste time acquiring a third.

He had seen the speedboat – left by one of the crew - tethered at the bottom of the _Odyssey's _left front pontoon – the one currently furthest from the dock. At his current speed he would just be able to reach, un-tether, and activate the craft before the rest of the Seekers converged on his position. They were just now parking their cars and issuing forth with weapons drawn. They would only begin firing once they saw a target. And he was the one with the wearable thermals. Even when they saw him, they would start off with warnings. The danger was ultimately minimal.

It took him exactly the amount of time he had calculated to make it to the boat. Laying the body of his newly-acquired prisoner to the side, it took him only seconds to bring the craft to life. It then roared across the waters of Long Beach Harbor, carrying him if not to safety at least away from danger.

Reeves took a moment to gaze down at the blissfully unconscious face of his captive. It was quite impressive how she had anticipated his approach the way she had. For the briefest of moments she had caused his self-assurance to slip. Very few rookies had those kind of natural instincts. They had to be inculcated through months – even years – of training and conditioning. He found himself wondering about her – this woman who was not a woman.

Ingrained conditioning coming back to the fore, the veteran operative broke off his stare and began calculating his next move. He would take the boat northeast into Berth E. It would be easy to commandeer a vehicle once he stepped off. From there, it would be only a few blocks to the nearest safe house. While the house's existence and past use by the CIA was by now as well-known to the invaders as every other human secret, it would take time before it occurred to them as a possible hiding place. Time he would put to good use. Although tonight's operation had been severely botched, he still possessed all the essential materials he needed. He would pick up the pieces and move forward.

He always had.


	3. Chapter 3

**Deck of the **_**Odyssey**_

**October 22, 20_**

_23:53 PST_

Submerged for a time in the black waters of unconsciousness, Singer had almost thought he was back on the Bat World, returning to the blind but intensely musical existence he had known for so many years. That notion was dispelled immediately as he saw the glow of a bright light from behind his closed eyelids. The light accelerated his return to awareness in more ways than one. There was warm wetness beneath his nose (now painfully swollen) and down across his mouth that was fast becoming dry and crusty. He had a dull, pounding headache, and his index finger was swollen and tender. The groan that issued from his lips had apparently been heard, for the light disappeared.

"We need some Healers up here – Stat!" The familiar voice of one his fellow Los Angeles Seekers pierced the darkness, guiding him even closer to full consciousness. Under normal circumstances, he would have known the voice immediately, but his mind was still muddled, unfocused.

"Singer, this is Wind Flight. Can you hear me?" The Seeker spoke again, his voice gentler this time and obviously intended for him alone.

"Wher'm I?" It was difficult to form separate words.

"You've been injured. Don't to try to move. We have the Healers on the way."

Tentatively opening his eyes, Singer could make out several figures leaning over him. His vision and memory – both still adjusting slowly - eventually confirmed them as Seekers, members of the backup they had sent for right before –

His thoughts immediate shifted to his partner.

"Jenna," he croaked. "Where's Jenna?" He sat straight up and immediately regretted it as a wave of nausea overtook him. Several hands caught him and gently eased him back down.

"Just try to rest now." Singer was lucid enough to notice that his question had been deliberately avoided. But he voiced no resistance.

He obediently remained in place as a team of Healers arrived to examine his injuries. While significant, they turned out to be far from life-threatening and quickly reparable. They consisted – in the order they had been inflicted – of a broken nose, fractured index finger, and a swollen welt behind the left ear – the site of the nerve strike that terminated his consciousness. All of them were completely healed within minutes of their discovery.

It was only after his recovery had been confirmed that Wind Flight and the others would answer his original question. What they told him left a pit deep inside his stomach. There was no trace of his young partner save for an ominous piece of evidence – her sidearm had been left abandoned near the platform's fuel tanks. All of them knew that a Seeker would never abandon their weapon by choice.

There were other signs as well. The scars of bullets littered the deck of the platform, testimony to a gun battle from which bloodshed had been curiously absent. The ballistics and forensics teams arrived shortly to construct a more detailed scenario of events, but none of the likely outcomes gave any cause for comfort. If Jenna had emerged the victor of this struggle, she would have still been on the ship with a captive in tow. There were only two possibilities. The first was that she had been shot and fallen overboard. But if that had been the case, the gun would have gone with her, clutched in a rigor-induced embrace. The second possibility was something that all of them regarded as a far, far worse fate than death.

Singer knew all too well the horrors that humans (there was no doubting their quarry's nature now) could unleash on their captives – especially females. His host's own memories provided a trove of images – many of them the born of firsthand experience. Nightmarish visions of torture, mutilation, death, and bodily violation. All these things and more the humans had done to their own in the time they ruled this world. They would show even less mercy to outsiders.

He remained for some time on the _Odyssey _with the rest of the team, recounting everything he could remember while it remained fresh in his mind. But it was ultimately unnecessary to rely on memories alone. Singer had carried a silent witness to record everything his own eyes might miss. A tool that had only recently come into widespread use among the Seekers.

* * *

"Roger that. I'm receiving the upload now."

Seeker Weaves the Light studied the screen intently as the recorded video feed – transmitted only seconds ago from Singer's wearable recorder - downloaded into the system. He then skipped back approximately an hour in the recording before allowing it to play. The first few minutes consisted of Singer and his counterpart boarding the launch platform and Singer himself taking up position alongside the entryway into the rocket hangar.

He then watched as Singer cornered a dark figure emerging from the entryway. The shine of a flashlight revealed that the man was dressed in black from head to toe, his features obscured beneath what appeared to be a pair of night-vision goggles. Upon Singer's orders, he began to remove them.

Weaves froze the image where it captured a full view of the man's face, activating a secondary program that would capture every visible metric and contour before performing a search for any matches on file.

The program finished its work in approximately 10 seconds.

Any observer would have seen a sudden jolt run through Weaves' body as he started reading the file the program had found. But there were no observers. He had made certain from the beginning that he would be in no danger of oversight from his peers.

Regaining his instinctive calm, the man who called himself Weaves the Light pulled out an encrypted mobile phone that never left his person and that he virtually never used. It would dial only one number which belonged to only one man.

The phone rang for approximately five seconds. It was answered with only one word, spat out in a hiss. _"Report."_

Despite himself, Weaves swallowed briefly before responding. "We have a development."

In the coded language they used, 'development' had only one meaning. Something had gone wrong. Disastrously wrong.

There was a brief moment of pregnant, dangerous silence before the voice spoke again, low and deadly. "_What kind of development_?"

Weaves consciously kept his voice calm and neutral as he replied. "There's been an attempted breach at the _Odyssey_. Two Seekers were tracking a suspected survivor who went onboard the platform. One was incapacitated when he attempted to apprehend the suspect, but his camera got a lock on the man's face. I just now found a match."

"_Go on."_ The words were spoken in a slow, deliberate tone that demanded absolute truth.

Weaves eyes briefly flickered back to the file onscreen as if to confirm its existence. "It's Dylan Reeves."

A prolonged, deafening silence ensued, seeming to envelop the slightest sound in a vacuum of nothingness.

"_Dylan Reeves is dead_." The tone dared him to contradict.

"It's his face, Sir." He went on, ignoring the gnawing pain inside his stomach. "The system confirmed a 99.8 percent match in all metrics."

There was a briefer silence this time before the voice spoke again. "_You said there were two Seekers who tried to apprehend him. Who are they_?"

Grateful for the abrupt change in focus, Weaves turned back to the PC and called up two more sets of records. "The one who sent the image is Singer of Wondrous Themes, originally from the Bat World. He came in with the third wave. His host's name was Michael Okoro. His partner is a more recent arrival from the Fire World. Her host was Jenna Kirkwood – she uses the same name. Singer was just treated for injuries sustained during the encounter and they're debriefing him right now. Kirkwood is currently unaccounted for."

"_Unaccounted for_?"

He took a breath before his reply. "There was no sign of her when the backup contingent got to the platform. Her weapon was left behind. We have… reason to believe she's been taken hostage."

This time there was a low, angry hiss that reverberated over the line. After a momentary delay the voice began issuing fresh commands.

"_Make yourself useful where I've placed you then. Under no circumstances must Dylan Reeves be captured alive – he's a useless liability at best and a dangerous threat at worst. He knew too much seven years ago and there's no telling what he's found out by now. If the Seekers obtain his body it's _over."

There was another brief pause as that final word was allowed to sink in.

"_You will also see to it that Kirkwood dies with him. Singer is no threat. He is aware of nothing and can reveal nothing. All that he knows is that he survived an encounter with another survivor, perhaps more dangerous than many of the others he's tracked but nothing unique. Kirkwood is in a position to learn _everything_. And you know exactly what her sense of duty will tell her to do." _

Weaves did know all too well.

"_Within the next 24 hours, everything that happened at Terminal Island is going to hit the newswires. Make sure that Reeves' face and file appears on every outlet. Make sure he is seen as the most dangerous threat to them imaginable – eclipsing anything else. Make sure that there is no question of obtaining his body for insertion. If you fail..."_

Weaves briefly closed his eyes at the deliberate pause, his forehead damp with a cold sheen of sweat.

"…_do not entertain for a second the delusion that you are indispensable." _

"Acknowledged." The one-word response was given in a tone barely above a whisper.

The voice went on, taking – as always – his acquiescence for granted.

"_If you find out that anyone else we know is playing Lazarus, you have resources. Make sure to contact me when and _only _when_, _you have placed them back in their tombs. We're too far into this to afford any other loose ends._"

The call was abruptly terminated.

Richard Detweiler, known for the past seven years as Weaves the Light, gazed at his dim reflection in the darkened PC screen, now occupied by a screen saver. His mind heavy with the task ahead of him, he took a small measure of comfort in how flawlessly the light danced off the lenses in his eyes.

* * *

Far on the other side of the world, the man who had taken Detweiler's call snapped his own phone shut in a single violent motion. The news had rattled him to a far greater degree than he would ever reveal in the presence of an underling. He could not have been more disturbed if he had seen bullets bouncing uselessly from the body of a sworn enemy or witnessed a specter rising out of a grave.

Reeves was dead. He had seen him die.

The dead did not rise.

He soon calmed himself, as he always did, shifting his focus from fear to cold calculation. Though he had feigned an annoyed near-indifference over the phone, seemingly leaving one of his puppets to deal with something beneath him, he knew that he would have to do far more than that. Everyone who had planned this endeavor had reason to fear Dylan Reeves. He had nearly been their undoing years before. If he was still alive, everything had changed.

He opened the phone again, dialing a number of his own. A hand was run through jet-black hair in a nervous gesture while it rang. It was answered by a voice as cold as his own and harshly accented. _"Report_."

In the presence of his own superior, he responded far more clearly than Detweiler. "We have a problem."

**Tucson, Arizona**

**October 23, 20_**

_2:01 MST _

Fords Deep Waters briefly closed his eyes, savoring the cool night air as he finally stepped out the exit door at St. Mary's Hospital. His shift at the Healing facility had ended an hour and a half hour earlier, but he had stayed the extra time to make sure the next day's scheduling had been taken care of and provide additional support for several new arrivals to the staff. Though he welcomed the needed respite, he felt no burden. He was answering his Calling, fulfilling himself in the deepest sense as a Healer and as a soul. Such work was its own reward. What greater glory could there be than to make whole that which was broken? To end the suffering of those in pain, to save the lives of those faced with death.

And yet…

The Healer felt the return of the haunting ache that had been with him the past year as he started the engine on his Lexus and began the short drive back to the apartment building where he'd been living since his relocation. Chicago should have been firmly in the past by now. He had fulfilled his duty there and come to where he was needed. But before his departure, there had been one final insertion, the last of many. A soul who should have begun her new life on this planet as had all the others.

Like all Healers among his kind, Fords was not used to losing patients, and the memory still pained him at his very core. It was the lack of closure as much as anything else that made things hard. Wanderer's fate had never been discovered following her disappearance on the way to Tucson. Harder still to bear was the very purpose behind that trip in the first place. She had been coming to see him once more. It had to do with the host in which he had placed her…

His hands involuntarily tightened their grip on the steering wheel as he pulled into the parking lot of the apartment building. It had been a mistake to perform that insertion, the last that he had ever done on an adult host. He was more convinced of that than ever now. Had he listened to his better judgment and ignored the Seeker's demands, Wanderer would still be alive. Of that he was certain. It was beyond painful to imagine what that innocent soul must have experienced in the days leading up to the end. Suffering in silence as a violent, alien presence turned her mind into a battlefield, unraveling her very identity. Gradually succumbing to the memories and will of a vengeful creature that would destroy itself simply to ensure she died with it – no matter how long and agonizing the process of death. He had seen the signs before with Kevin, and it had almost been too late to save him.

Fords continued to brood upon these memories for a time as he climbed the stairs to his second-story unit. He might have taken the elevator, but he preferred to use his legs whenever possible, a legacy of the centuries he had spent in rootedness as a See Weed. This body was designed for movement, and it was shameful in his eyes not to use it for its intended purpose, even if it was late and he was mentally drained from his shift work.

There was a sudden humming vibration as he closed the door behind him. Fords instinctively fished the smartphone out of his pocket and held it up to his ear without even a glance at the caller ID, expecting one of his colleagues at St. Mary's. "Hello?"

"_Tom, it's me_."

Every muscle in the Healer's body suddenly stiffened as if flash frozen. His lungs momentarily ceased their motion and his heart rate exploded.

That name…

"Who is this? What do you –"

"_Listen to me. I don't have much time," _The deep, rasping voice on the other end cut off his own as soon as he regained it. "_I know you're not Thomas Leben_, _but I know that you recognize the name and that you recognize me._"

Fords could not have spoken in that moment if he had tried. He _did _recognize both the name and the voice – even though he himself had never heard either.

"_At this moment, your very first instinct will be to call the Seekers." _The voice spoke again, breaking into his innermost thoughts. _"That's to be expected. And, in fact, it's exactly what I want you to do. But you'll be wasting your time to send them after me. Even if they knew where to look, I never stay in the same place for long. And I'm not your biggest concern right now."_

The voice momentarily stopped, and Fords could make out the sound of labored breathing. But it spoke again before he could pronounce any of his own words.

"_Listen to me very carefully, Tom - or whatever your name is by now. At this moment, you're the closest I have to someone I can trust. I need you to use whatever influence, whatever authority, whatever _power_ you have. Something is about to take place in Los Angeles – something horrific."_

There was another – pained? - intake of breath before the voice continued.

"_The city has to be locked down - evacuated. Now. Not tomorrow, not next week. Now. And even that may be too late."_

"Why?" Fords' voice, newly recovered, came out in a whisper.

The speaker's next – and last – words turned his blood to ice.

"_A lot of people are about to die. And the survivors will experience something worse."_

Fords placed the phone on countertop, shying away from it as if burned. Bracing both hands against the sink, he closed his eyes and took several deep breaths in an effort to slow his racing heartbeat. Opening them again, he slowly raised his head until it faced the bathroom mirror.

The light reflected off the eyes of Dr. Thomas Leben's bearded face as it stared back at him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Phoenix, Arizona**

**October 22, 20_**

_2:32 MST_

There was virtually nothing to distinguish the white van from the thousands of other vehicles coursing through the streets of Phoenix, Arizona that night. Its four occupants were two women accompanied by two men. The first of the former, short, petite, and golden-haired, was just emerging from her teens. The next, taller and athletically built with sun-tanned skin and raven hair, had recently reached the age of 21. Their male counterparts were several years older, one having officially entered his thirties several days earlier. Anyone who noticed them at all would have taken them for a typical group of young souls traveling together to see and experience the sights and sensations this world had to offer.

The eyes of only one, however, reflected the city's lights as they penetrated the vehicle's interior.

Closer observation of the passengers would have uncovered an air of wariness and tension out of place among the city's normal denizens (a status gained through right of conquest and of time). Even the golden-haired girl, to whom the reflective eyes belonged, wore an expression of partial apprehension distinguished from those of the others only by its lack of dormant aggression. These four had come to the city with purposes entirely distinct from the inhabitants that surrounded them.

The van and its occupants attracted no additional attention as they pulled into the parking lot of one of the city's many motels. Nor did anyone give the golden-haired girl a second glace as she obtained a room for the entire group at the front desk, her eyes dispelling any doubts as to her nature before they were even conceived. The other three remained outside in the van before following her into the room, located on a far corner of the building well-removed from the other guests.

There was an immediate release of tension and breath as the door closed behind them. The older girl immediately flopped face down on one of the beds with a sigh of release. Her partner, the older stockier male, gave a slight smile and sat down beside her. The younger male, lean and dark-haired, took the blonde in his arms and planted a kiss on her lips.

"Good job, Wanda."

"No problem, Ian." The girl answered, her cheeks colored with a blush she wished she could hide.

"So what's our next stop after this?" The older male spoke even as he began massaging the shoulders of his female companion, still face down on the bed.

Ian sat down on the room's other double bed, taking out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. Wanda scooted on with her knees, bracing one of her arms lightly against his shoulder.

"We've hit most everything between here and the Peak. If you guys are game in the morning, we can take I-17 up to Flagstaff. Some pretty neat sights on the way if you're interested: Montezuma Castle, Slide Rock…"

"_PLEASE." _The raven-haired girl spoke without raising her head. "I don't even want to _think_ about more driving right now. I've been in a vehicle for nearly _eight hours_ today. I'm exhausted and stir crazy at the same time."

"If you need to replenish your energies, Mel, we can always make a pit-stop at Sedona." Ian gave a slight smirk at his own reference.

Melanie raised her head to look him straight in the eye, clearly not amused. "Don't start with me, O'Shea. The last time I was in that town I saw a man – old enough to be my grandfather - stripped to the waist and hugging a _rock_. The only way I will _ever _go back there again is under duress."

"Kidding, Mel. I'm kidding."

"My sense of humor switched off for the night three hours ago."

"Sedona would probably be a different city now," Wanda offered helpfully.

The room's human occupants – Ian included - leveled bemused stares in her direction, sparking another deep blush in her cheeks. She turned away, weakly mumbling an apology as she reached for the TV remote – it was clear she wished to redirect the conversation.

The foursome soon settled into a good-natured debate involving the limited choice of available programming. Finding little – as usual – in the way of entertainment, they eventually stopped on a news channel, deciding that they would all benefit from remaining informed on the latest developments. It was still a rather dry and un-stimulating experience, however – the sort of headline-grabbing events that would have predominated in earlier times simply did not exist.

Soon bored, Melanie and Jared both took the time to clean the 9 mm Berettas that all of them (except for Wanda) now carried with them at all times. They hadn't gotten them from a Supply Center. Wanda had convinced them long before that gun purchases were likely to draw unwanted attention, being done only by Seekers. The guns were a recent barter from their newly-discovered allies up north. Far better-armed than their own group of survivors under Jeb back at Picacho Peak, Nate's group had plenty of weaponry to spare. The ultimate source of the arsenal itself still remained murky, however, even to them. Nate himself had stumbled onto it by accident during a hike in the woods shortly before the invasion. Although he couldn't be 100 percent certain, his most plausible theory was that it was the lost stockpile of a prominent doomsday cult that had been shut down by the FBI.

In retrospect, it hadn't been one of the Bureau's finer moments. The only members of the cult who knew of the stockpile's location had apparently been killed in the final shootout.

Wanda and Ian kept their eyes on the screen, leaning into one another in a partial embrace. Ian paid closer attention to the news reports than he would have done on previous occasions. This was the first raid in which he rather than Jared was taking the leading role, mapping out the routes and planning around the obstacles. Following their unexpected contact with Nate's group several months earlier, Jeb had come up with another one of his ideas. Their hidden community was now initiating a major effort to reduce their formerly haphazard raiding techniques to a systematic, disciplined science that could be passed down from instructor to student. Ian was currently in training under Jared's tutelage (though he would have bristled at the term). The plan was for him to absorb enough of Jared's experience and skills to become an assistant trainer to the group's juvenile members, supplementing the conventional education already given to them by Melanie's cousin Sharon.

Most of what they saw was cheerfully predictable. A football championship in Los Angeles just a few days away, an agricultural surplus in Egypt, plans for the Olympic games in Lhasa, Tibet. The most interesting item was the scheduled launch of a new communications satellite from the Sea Launch _Odyssey_ platform on November 7. That said a lot about just how dull current events had become. Ian himself was holding out hope that there would be something involving another planet, but it looked like tonight that was not to be. The speed of light acted as a natural barrier to the dissemination of news between worlds, and stories from the souls' acquisitions beyond Earth were few and far between.

Ian was just about to reach for the remote when everything changed.

The sound from the current news program suddenly cut out and a numeral countdown image superimposed itself over the anchorman. Reaching zero, the entire image was replaced by a graphic of the news station's logo along with the phrase "special report". There was a musical accompaniment as the graphic gave way to an image of cityscape right next to a harbor.

"_We have just received word of a _shootout_ at the Port of Los Angeles_," There was a clear note of fearful disbelief in the anchor's voice. _"Two Seekers from the Los Angeles Chapter were tracking a suspected fugitive to the Port's Terminal Island earlier tonight. One of them reportedly had the suspect cornered onboard the _Odyssey _satellite launch platform when he was _physically attacked _and disarmed. The suspect then proceeded to engage in a pitched gun battle with the Seeker's partner before exiting the platform by unknown means as reinforcements converged on the scene. The first Seeker, Singer of Wondrous Themes -" _An image of a dark-skinned male appeared in the upper left corner of the screen. " - _was treated for minor injuries at the scene, but his partner, Jenna Kirkwood_ – Another image appeared beneath the first of an attractive brown-haired woman with a slightly olive complexion. " -_ remains unaccounted for. Her weapon was recovered at the scene, and it looks as if she herself has been taken hostage." _

The dark-skinned man from the first image appeared on-screen, standing in front of a reporter holding up a microphone. There was a graphical bar at the bottom of the screen displaying "Singer of Wondrous Themes, Seeker – Los Angeles."

"_I had the suspect at gunpoint for just a moment," _the man was saying. "_He was wearing what I presumed to be night-vision goggles, which I ordered him to remove so I could see his eyes. He complied with my order, and I was able to get a good look at his face right before he tore the gun out of my hand, broke my nose, and karate-chopped me right behind the ear, in that order._" He used his hands to indicate each of the places where he had been struck. _"When I came to about a half hour later, the suspect was gone and so was Jenna."_

The scene switched away from Singer's interview to a bird's eye view of the _Odyssey _launch platform. "_Singer shortly transmitted an image of the man's face which had been taken from his wearable camera. Facial recognition analysis identified the man as Dylan Arthur Reeves, a human missing since colonization." _

Another image filled the screen, this one an enlarged portrait of a middle-aged man with dark hair just starting to turn gray. His face was weathered with evidence of hard living, and he could have passed as a twin of the late actor Charles Bronson.

"_An alert has currently been issued for Reeve's capture or neutralization. He is to be considered armed and extremely dangerous…"_

The report went on, providing even more information about the danger Reeves posed to public safety. There were other details as well about his past. His career during the human era as a highly-trained assassin destroying enemies of the United States. Nightmarish atrocities he had committed in the name of his government. His proven links to hundreds of politically-inspired killings around the globe. A continued willingness to kill and torture without mercy to achieve his twisted ends. The most significant piece of information, however, came near the end.

Reeves, due to his brutal proclivities, was not considered a viable host – even for temporary information gathering. There would be no question of a live capture. The instructions to every Seeker unit involved in the manhunt were simple: termination.

It was as if no one in the room had even breathed for the past ten minutes. All four members of the group were transfixed by the message and picture displayed on the screen. Jared, however, had an expression of absolute shock and disbelief that went far beyond any of the others. Melanie, who knew him best, was the first to notice that all the blood had drained from his face – something she had never seen.

"Jared, what's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

He didn't answer her at first. Slowly, as if in a trance, he rose to his feet and took several steps closer to the screen, seemingly to satisfy himself that the image was really there.

"Jared?" Melanie tried once more to snap him out the stupor was beginning to terrify her.

Finally responding to her voice, he swiveled around his entire body.

"Mel," he finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "That's my uncle." He pointed the index finger of his left hand straight at the screen, still displaying the enlarged face of Dylan Reeves.


	5. Chapter 5

**Los Angeles, California**

**Former CIA safe house**

**October 22, 20_**

_2:01 PST_

Reeves had entertained a slight worry at first that the safe house would have been converted to other uses by now, perhaps even housing new occupants. It had been no small relief when he confirmed that the slightly cramped one-bedroom unit had remained exactly as he remembered it. He was certain that its existence had to have been uncovered by now. But the building where it was located had been just a few steps away from condemnation seven years ago. By now, it was only a matter of time before it was demolished. No one would have wanted to live there, which afforded him a welcome privacy.

Before he reached the unit, he had already taken steps to secure his captive, making sure to dispose of her wearable viewcam while still in the harbor. Still unconscious, she now sat bound to a chair in the middle of the main room, gagged with several handkerchiefs. If he had intended to interrogate her, the last restraint would have been dispensed with. But his questions were few, and keeping her silent was a far higher priority. She could provide no answers he had not uncovered long ago.

Reeves himself sat in another chair several feet away from her own, dividing his attention between her and the small, slightly antiquated TV screen on the unit's kitchen shelf. The recently-released news of his narrow escape was dominating every single channel. It was exactly opposite to his desired outcome tonight, but he had prepared himself to accept it.

He had _not_, however, expected them to identify him so quickly. The image of his own face seemed to mock him as it stared out from the screen, accompanied by the fearful pronouncements of the anchor regarding his violent and dangerous tendencies.

Nor was he expecting the egregious slant about his past. At first, he had thought the souls' own inborn fear of violence was coloring their presentation. Then he became confused. The report was getting basic _facts_ wrong, listing a long catalogue of missions he had never performed, places he had never been. Much of it bordered on the ridiculous. They couldn't even properly identify the agency he had worked for.

The confusion, however, disappeared with the end of the broadcast. The knowledge that he had been marked for death seemed to bring things back into focus. The pattern of the report then became all-too-recognizable. He had seen others like it many times.

Before the invasion.

He involuntarily tightened his lips. What he had seen in the _Odyssey'_s hangar should have been confirmation enough. But this had sealed it. _Nothing _was now as it seemed. Who had planted that story? The Seeker he had taken down? Someone higher up? How many infiltrators might there be? Dozens? Hundreds?

His eyes shifted back to his captive, who had still not arisen from her involuntarily sleep. _She _at least, was everything she appeared to be. He had examined her beforehand. She wore no lenses, and the reflection in her eyes was therefore no illusion. It was a sad commentary on his circumstances that these facts had become a cause for _relief_ rather than fear.

A low, muffled groan sounded beneath the gag on her mouth, and her eyes began flickering. A small measure of motion also returned to the rest of her body, hampered by the restraints. Reeves stood up from his seat and moved closer, staring down at her while he allowed the belated recovery to take place. There was much he had to do tonight.

* * *

Jenna had not expected a return to consciousness. At least not in this body. The blackness had been so complete that she was almost certain she had been removed from her host. But the sensations that had become familiar over the past year were now returning. The smell of something dank and musty filled her nostrils. She could feel herself propped upright in a sitting position, and a bright light – emanating from somewhere up and to the right – stung her eyelids.

Cautiously, she cracked open her eyes, squinting against the brightness as she allowed them to adjust. She tried to lift a hand to shield it, but found both arms – as well as her legs – tightly bound against the chair on which she sat. An ominous feeling of panic began to rise in her chest as she felt the thick wads of cloth that had been stuffed into her mouth, bound in place by a handkerchief tied round her neck.

Behind the light, something stirred.

Her head immediately snapped up towards the movement she had caught out of the corner of her eye. With both eyes partially adjusted to the lighting, she could discern a towering silhouette, its features cloaked behind what she now recognized as a flashlight beam. She blinked rapidly, still feeling the sting from meeting the beam head on.

There was a faint click, and the beam disappeared. There was the brief sound of footsteps, followed by another click, and the room was suddenly illuminated by a light bulb hanging down from the ceiling.

Her eyes fully adjusted now, Jenna could see that she was in what appeared to be a one-bedroom apartment that had clearly seen better days. There was no carpeting, and the wallpaper was peeling off in multiple places. A thick odor permeated the air, and the few items of furniture – a table, a few chairs, and not much else – were all covered with a layer of dust.

But she had no eyes for the room. Her entire attention was focused on its sole other occupant.

He remained standing at the far wall, his finger still on the switch he had thrown. In stature, he was easily six feet tall. Without the kevlar jacket he had been wearing on the _Odyssey_, she could see a thickly muscled physique outlined beneath his clothing, which consisted of a black turtleneck sweater and cargo pants of the same color. His hair matched his clothing, though it was beginning to gray at the edges. He regarded her with an unreadable expression that seemed to gravitate towards curiosity.

It was the eyes that drew her in, no longer covered by the goggles. Even in the comparatively dim light, she could clearly see the reflection.

The black-clad man had apparently noticed the suspicious confusion on her face. Stepping away from the switch, he moved to the table on her right, keeping his eyes locked on hers. He then picked up a small white case, unscrewing its two lids, before reaching both hands back up to his face.

Slowly and purposefully, he removed the lenses from his eyes one by one, keeping his gaze fixed upon her as he set them inside the case on the table. What she had suspected all along was now irrevocably confirmed. Reflectionless orbs stared back at her, black as a void. Windows into nothing. A dull, sick feeling began to rise in her stomach.

The human continued to watch her for several seconds, as if to study her reaction. Or savor her fear.

"Rather fascinating when you think about it." He unexpectedly broke the silence, seemingly talking half to her and half to himself. "I look into your eyes and I see a Presence. Something foreign. Alien. Beyond understanding. What is it you see in my eyes? Nothingness? A vacuum? The Pit of Hades?"

She simply stared back at him, unable to respond.

He shook his head in a dismissive gesture. "Questions for another time. There are more important things right now."

Jenna forced herself to keep from flinching as he knelt down in front of her, reaching his hands behind her head. "This is more or less a formality," he said as he untied the handkerchief, removing the gag from her mouth at the same time. "There's no one else in this building who could possibly hear you. Besides that, I've always found one-sided conversations awkward at best and frustrating at worst."

"Who are you? What is it you want from me?" Jenna formed the words with difficulty, her throat painfully dry.

In a gesture she wasn't expecting the human produced a plastic bottle of water which he held up to her lips. Deciding for the moment not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Jenna drank gratefully. He waited until she had had her fill before he answered the question.

"To answer your first question, my name is Dylan Reeves – no need to tell me yours, Ms. Kirkwood, your badge did that for you. As for your second question, I'm more than a little curious as to how you found out about me. It took me years to craft my persona, and I've observed your people long enough to know you don't spy on your own."

Her thirst now satisfied, Jenna looked back up at him, trying to ignore the sight of his eyes. "You made several mistakes when you purchased your weapon. The first was pretending you were a Seeker. The clerk at the Supply Center knew every Seeker in the immediate area – you weren't one of them. The second was that story you gave him about coming in with the first wave when you claimed to be from the Fire World."

Reeves raised a single eyebrow. "Go on."

"There were no settlers from the Fire World in the first wave. It's too far from Earth. I only arrived from there myself last year."

For the first time, there was the brief hint of an expression on his face. A faint twitch suddenly appeared in his left eye and was gone. It seemed to indicate annoyance. Most likely with himself.

"Yes…that was an oversight."

Jenna swallowed tightly, not forgetting the danger she was in. "What do want? What were you doing on the _Odyssey_?"

"That's two questions. I've only asked you one so far. But I'm willing to be charitable."

His back was to her for several seconds as he turned toward the table, littered with various pieces of equipment it was still too dim for her to identify. She could see, however, that his disguise had been thorough. The pink outline of an insertion scar stood out clearly against his neck. Reeves continued to speak over his shoulder as he manipulated something she couldn't see.

"I originally hoped the first person I showed this to would be another human – a survivor like myself. I know they exist. But they're not very keen on letting themselves be found, and there's very little they'd be able to do with the knowledge I'd give them. All in all, it's just as well that I found _you_. What you're about to hear concerns your people as much as it does mine."

Reeves turned back to face her, holding what she recognized to be a mobile device – a model most commonly used for storing audio files. His right index finger lightly tapped an area of the screen, and he set it back down on the table, keeping his eyes locked on hers as the file began to play, heavily punctuated with bursts of static.

"_Dylan…[_static_]…Smerdyakov…[_static_]… faction in the government…[_static_]…they know about the invasion…[_static_]…known since…[_static_]…allowing it to take place…[_static_]…make us easier to control…[_static_]…let them take control…[_static_]…then THEY will control THEM…[_static_]…It's started...[_static_]…Los Angeles…[_static_]…beginning and the end…[_static_]…Dylan…run. Run while you still can!...[_static_]…It's not just us…[_static_]…whole world…[_static_]…Don't trust…O my God! They're here!...[_static_]…going to kill -"_

The words were suddenly cut off by the sound of a massive blast that gave way to a rush of flame. The cryptic, garbled message abruptly terminated in a sustained line of static.

There was a pregnant silence between them for approximately five seconds. Without breaking his gaze from her eyes, Reeves used his left hand to switch off the device, still broadcasting a steady stream of meaningless feedback.

Jenna's thoughts and feelings were a confused mass. The first thing she felt was a horrified revulsion accompanied by a dark, instinctive pity for the unfortunate man whose voice had been so mercilessly silenced. There were other things too. Some of the message's words carried an eerie significance. Invasion. Control. World.

She stared at the human with new eyes. What was he saying…?

Reeves read her thoughts as easily as he had done when she first awoke. "I first received this message seven years ago – in another time and a different world."

He broke his gaze from his for the first time and began to pace across the room as he spoke.

"Almost twelve hours to the minute after I heard it, I escaped what would have otherwise been a completely successful attempt on my life. I still have the scars from it. The man who tried to kill me has a grave."

Jenna listened in silence, a now familiar twist forming in her stomach at the casual reminder of his deadly capabilities.

"The voice you heard on that tape belonged to a very close friend of mine. If I told you his full story from the beginning it would take up time I don't have right now. But I can tell you this. He got involved in something, saw things he wasn't intended to see – and he ultimately died for it. In seven years, I've never learned the full truth. I don't think even he did. But someone thought I had gotten close enough to it that I had to die. Given what's happened since it's not hard to connect certain dots."

Reeves stopped at the table and picked up another object, this one larger and rectangular, fingering it as he continued to speak.

"Whoever sent that hired gun after me had foreknowledge of something. Secrets they weren't willing to share. An agenda they were willing to pursue at any cost. Something they felt was threatened. Over the past seven years, I've faked my own death, wandered the world, stolen to survive, lived a lie, and watched everything I've ever known disappear around me trying to find out what that something was. And I've barely solved even the first half of the puzzle."

Reeves looked her straight in the eye once more, his expression hard. "What I've confirmed so far is this: someone knew about you. All of you. They knew you were coming. And they expected to profit from the change.

"The how's, the why's and the who's are something I'm still working on. Tonight I came closer than I ever came before to finding the answers. I knew from the beginning there was something significant about Los Angeles. It was central to the plan, somehow. You heard the same thing on that message that I did – 'the beginning and the end'. The digging I did up to this point led me to the _Odyssey_. I wasn't sure what I would find, but I did find _something_."

He pressed a switch on the device, lighting up a touchscreen which he began to manipulate.

"At this moment that launch platform is housing a Zenit 3SL rocket. As far as any knows, that rocket will be launching a communications satellite into geostationary orbit within the next two weeks. From what I've uncovered so far, however, I had reason to believe there might be more to that rocket than met the eye. This is an image I took while onboard."

Reeves came forward, holding out the device so she could see it clearly. It now held an x-ray cutaway image of what Jenna immediately recognized as the rocket's nose section, clearly displaying its cargo.

"Does this look like a satellite to you?"

Jenna leaned forward for a closer look. Inside the cutaway, she could make out a lattice-type structure filled with dozens of globular objects packed tightly together. Her memories supplied only a few images of satellites, both active and dormant. But their appearance was nothing like this.

She lifted her eyes to his. "What is that?"

"A cluster bomb."

**Phoenix, Arizona**

**October 22, 20_**

_3:03 MST_

"Jared, I'm asking you to think about this for just _one second_!" Melanie's words fell on Jared's back as he shouldered on his windbreaker and shoved a fresh clip into his Beretta with one swift motion.

"There's nothing to think about, Mel," he answered without turning around. "You just heard the same thing I did. They're going to kill him. _For real_."

"And what are you going to do?" Ian protested. "Just waltz into Los Angeles with no plan, no backup, no _vehicle_, and no idea where to look? That's suicide and you know it, Howe. You're smarter that. I'd expect this kind of stupidity from _Kyle_."

"I know where to look." Jared uncharacteristically ignored Ian's last dig as he snatched up the duffle bag he had carried into the room. "My uncle was… _is_ like my father - even a little bit like Jeb. He had a hiding place ready. If he's in trouble, it'll be the first place he'll go. I know where to find it. He took me there once when I was fourteen."

"If you're so sure you know where it is, how come you've never been there since?"

Jared turned around to face the rest of the group for the first time. "Until now, I didn't have any reason to look for it. I thought he was dead. My whole family did. And that was _before_ the world ended on us. If he's still alive now, that changes everything. I have to go after him."

There was a brief, telling moment of silence.

Melanie broke it with little more than a whisper. "Jared, you know what happened when I went after Sharon alone. I almost didn't come back." She gave a telling glance in Wanda's direction.

"Listen to her, Jared." Wanda spoke for the first time since they had seen the report. "Things have changed since I first came to Earth. They no longer use adults as hosts. If you were caught, they would put a Seeker inside of you – just long enough to lead them back to the others. It's not just yourself you'll be putting in danger, Jared. It's all of us."

The steel resolve on his face seemed to soften for just a moment. "I know the risks. And I understand everything that you're saying. Under any other circumstances I would agree with it. But you can't ask me not to go. I don't have a choice."

"Then we _all _go." Melanie didn't even give Jared time to argue as she snatched her own jacket and bag. "You're not going to get to Los Angeles on foot, and we only have one vehicle – unless you're planning on doing something _really _stupid."

"Mel – "

"_Don't_, Jared. We tried it the other way once – that time we got a miracle. Trying it twice is tempting Fate."

Wanda stepped forward too, speaking as she gathered up her own personal articles.

"There's also something else to consider, Jared. You'll be walking straight into a manhunt. This is the first human encounter like this that they've had since the early occupation. The Seekers are going to be far more vigilant than they were in Chicago. You'll need someone to cover for you if things go bad."

She raised her eyes meaningfully, making sure they caught the light at the reflective angle.

"One more thing, Jared." Ian glanced back at the screen, still displaying commentary on the bulletin. "How well did you know this uncle of yours? You heard what they said about him. The things he did."

Jared's lips tightened in an expression of contained fury. "I don't where they came up with that garbage. But it's lies. All of it."

"You just basically confirmed that he faked his own death before there was any reason." Ian continued. "What other secrets do you think he might have kept? How do you he won't turn out to be just as dangerous to you as the Seekers?"

Jared's nostrils flared briefly before he answered. "Dylan's going to have a lot of answering to do when I find him. But he was _not_ a _killer_. And don't you ever accuse him of that again."

"My point is this, Jared. Getting past the Seekers is one thing. But you're also going to need some back up just in case things go sour with your uncle." Ian hefted on his own jacket and chambered a round in his own Beretta, placing it inside the inner pocket. "We'll make this work for us. It won't be anything unusual if we're delayed for a week or so getting back to the Peak. We'll extend the raid into California."

It was clear to Jared by now that arguing was useless. He gave a muttered "_fine_" under his breath along with a nod of assent. Shoving open the door, he allowed the others to follow him outside to the van. Once outside, he gave a slight pause before speaking once more, just loud enough for all three to hear.

"And thanks."

**Tucson, Arizona**

**October 22, 20_**

_2:19 MST_

Fords Deep Waters had spent precious minutes simply sitting there in the semi-lit darkness of his apartment's small living room, grappling with the flood of long-dormant memories. Not his memories. Leben's memories.

An uncharacteristically paralyzing state of confusion, indecision, and fear had overwhelmed his mind. Something he had never before experienced. He could discern the meaning of the message well enough, but the motive behind it was less clear. A warning? A threat? The second prospect, while far from unthinkable, seemed almost impossible. The old friend his host had known all those years ago was a human – and therefore capable of all the deeds carried out by the rest of his race. But he had never been that cold. Never a murderer.

The last words of the message played once more through the Healer's mind. "_A lot of people are about to die. And the survivors will experience something worse."_

The clarity that should have been there from the very beginning returned instantly. Fords knew what he had to do.

**Los Angeles, California**

**October 22, 20_**

_1:21 PST_

What had once been the Los Angeles Police Department's Major Crimes Division was now maintained almost exclusively as a formality. Manned by a rapidly diminishing skeleton staff, it was clear to everyone that its days were numbered in this newly pacified world. At this moment, only one Seeker was standing by to receive incoming calls through its threat hotline. Highly active both in human times and the early years of the occupation, it was quickly falling into total disuse.

The call that came in was the first that had been received all day.

The Seeker on duty calmly spoke a rehearsed greeting into a headset as he continued typing on his desk PC. "Good evening, Los Angeles Chapter Major Crimes Division, this is Seeker Weaves the Light, how may I help you?"

"_My name is Fords Deep Waters_," The voice that answered was nervous, hesitant. "_I'm a Healer at St. Mary's Hospital in Tucson, Arizona. I received a phone call about twenty minutes ago. It…caused me significant concern. The caller didn't tell me his name… but I think I know it – and I think the caller was a human." _

Detweiler abruptly ceased his typing. The call had his full attention now.

"Please continue, Healer Fords."

"_The caller was extremely vague. But he was saying something about a threat in Los Angeles. His exact words were 'a lot of people are about to die, and the survivors will experience something worse'. He said the city had to be evacuated and locked down immediately – while there was still time." _

Detweiler's eyes narrowed as he began keying in the main points of Fords' message. "What leads you to believe this caller was a human?"

There was a moment of hesitation on the other end of the line.

"_I recognized the voice. It was someone my host remembered from human times. His name was Lincoln White." _

The faux Seeker's hands froze in mid-air over the keyboard. No. That was impossible. Not in the same night. First Reeves, and now –

Training took over, and Detweiler's mind immediately snapped back to the situation at hand. "What is your location at this time, Healer Fords?"

The Healer dutifully read off his address, which Detweiler jotted down on a notepad beside the keyboard.

"At this time, Healer Fords, I would advise you to stay put and lock your doors and windows. I'm going to pass this information on to the rest of the Division, and I'll be contacting the local Chapter in Tucson. Some Seekers will be arriving at your address within the hour for further debriefing. Do you have anything else to report at this time?"

"_No. Thank you."_ There was an evident note of relief in Fords' voice.

"Thank you very much for contacting us with this information Healer Fords. Rest assured, we'll be addressing this immediately. As I said before, the local Chapter will be debriefing you shortly. Make sure to stay where you are, and don't allow anyone inside unless they present identification as a Seeker. I don't mean to alarm you, but if this turns out to be anywhere near as serious as it's looking right now, we have to take every precaution."

Detweiler quietly deleted the newly created notation on the PC as the call concluded. His master's words earlier that night echoed in his mind as he produced the same encrypted cell phone he had used little more than an hour before. What he had told the Healer was partially true. The number he keyed in was in Tucson, Arizona. But it belonged to no Seeker.

The greeting he received on the other end was satisfyingly deferential given his previous experience. "_What orders?" _

"I have a certain 'package' for you to secure…"


	6. Chapter 6

**Virginia**

**CIA Safe House**

**Ten Years Earlier **

**August 14, 20_**

_10:01 EST_

Approximately 800 feet square and nestled deep in the woods beneath towering pines, the oak-built one-story house resembled nothing more than the comfortable retreat of a well-endowed professional with money to spare and a fondness for nature's surroundings. The fact, however, that it was accessible only by a special path, continuously guarded, and its existence known only to a select few with security clearance belied its unassuming appearance.

Intended to house only one or two on a semi-permanent basis, its occupants currently numbered six. Five were CIA personnel. The other, while never officially part of that organization, had labored unseen on its behalf for five long and fruitful years. Referred to in the Agency only by his code-name of "ROSTAM" he might have very well proved his worth for many more years to come. His presence today was a grim indicator that such was not to be.

The group was currently gathered in the house's small living area. ROSTAM himself and two of the CIA personnel sat facing each other on two couches, a small coffee table standing between them with a tape recorder on top. Two of the other CIA officers stood behind ROSTAM's couch, hovering in what seemed a protective stance.

Even here, there was a clear division between the Agency's two pre-eminent components. The two behind ROSTAM were case officers from the National Clandestine Service (NCS), the directorate responsible the various overseas "spy" and field operations that gave the CIA its iconic – if exaggerated – image in American popular culture. The two agents facing him on the opposite couch were analysts from the Directorate of Intelligence (DI), a Langley-based network that interpreted the data provided to them by the NCS. In theory, their relationship was highly symbiotic and therefore harmonious. In reality, the conflicting cultures of the two directorates often led to mutual annoyance at best and loathing at worst.

ROSTAM had been recruited by the NCS, and they regarded him as _their_ property - temporarily lent to the DI only as a courtesy.

The fifth agent in the room also remained standing, situated at a position that triangulated between both parties. He too was NCS. Tall and dark-haired, his presence fulfilled a dual function. Officially a Paramilitary Operations Officer, it was he who had exfiltrated ROSTAM from certain death in Iran. Fluent in several languages, he was at present serving as an interpreter for the said asset, who spoke only Russian.

The officer's name was Dylan Reeves.

The two analysts, one from the Office of Terrorism Analysis, the other from the Weapons Intelligence, Nonproliferation, and Arms Control Center, had been questioning the asset for over an hour. ROSTAM was a gold mine of intelligence. Among other Agency assets, he represented an almost unheard of rarity – a Russian scientist who had labored in the deepest levels of the Soviet _Biopreparat_ and had been one of several foreign researchers employed by the Iranian biological weapons program. The information he was providing about the Iranian effort alone was worth its weight in diamonds, giving a first-hand glimpse that the agency had never possessed.

There were other things too. Deadly secrets from a past whose shadow continued to haunt the present.

"When you originally began work at Marzanabad, you stated that 18 microbial agents were in use, with 8 of them successfully weaponized." The analyst from OTA spoke as he was scribbling on the legal pad in front of him. "We have established estimates as to the quantities of each strain being retained by the Iranian military establishment versus those being transferred to various non-state actors under Iranian control or influence. The amount of material with which the project started was limited, which carried a host of inhibitions to the effort's progress. But from what you've told us, the Marzanabad plant has recently received a massive new supply of strains, accelerating the project several years ahead of schedule. Can you tell us anything about the source of these new materials?"

ROSTAM waited impassively while Reeves dutifully translated the query into Russian. He took a long draught from the cigarette in his hand, expelling twin streams of smoke from both nostrils before answering. Those familiar with his mannerisms knew it was a sign of tension.

"_I can tell you that the strains originated in Russia. They were flown into Iran packaged as aerosol powders. They would have come from several biological facilities, but the primary one would have been The Institute of Ultra-Pure Bio-Preparations. They were first weaponized in 1987 and kept in storage until 1992, when they were taken out of the country."_

The analyst from Weapons Intelligence snapped up his head from his own legal pad as soon as Reeves completed the translation to English. "Are you saying these new materials are leftovers from _Biopreparat? _That's impossible. Anthrax is the only microbrial strain that can be stored indefinitely. Others lose their virulence after only a few years. These agents would have been decades old. By 1992, they should have been almost useless, let alone when the Iranians got them."

ROSTAM took another - even longer - drag on his cigarette before answering. "_When they were taken out of Russia, the strains had almost completely lost their virulence. It was what made them so easy to acquire. The Soviet Union had just collapsed. There was still chaos throughout the entire military apparatus. The security forces responsible for their safekeeping were few and easily bribed. No one foresaw any threat from allowing them to fall into the wrong hands. They were assumed to be useless. _

"_That has now changed. The group that sold them to the Iranians developed a new process of some sort. I cannot say when or how it was done. The number of people who know could be counted on one hand. But its effects are nothing short of revolutionary. It can preserve the virulence of microbial strains for decades – perhaps even centuries. It can also restore it to old strains that have lost their effectiveness."_

The OTA analyst narrowed his eyes in skepticism. "You keep making reference to 'the group'. Could you clarify that please?"

"_I can give you only cursory details about its membership and structure. I do not know exactly when it was formed or for what purpose. They are not controlled by any government, but they have contacts in the Russian foreign intelligence service as well as that of several other countries. As far as I can tell they have no ideological agenda. Their current activities consist almost exclusively of weapons trafficking, primarily selling off components of the old Soviet military arsenal to rogue regimes and terrorist organizations with funds to spare. Their most profitable product line is currently nuclear and biological weaponry. From time to time they will also act as a banking firm of sorts, providing 'capitalization' for military and terrorist efforts they believe capable of producing 'returns'. I know only the name of their leader – Yuri Smerdyakov. He personally closed their latest deal with the Iranians." _

"What can you tell us about Smerdyakov himself?"

"_He began his career as an officer in the KGB. He spent at least five years as an observer in _Biopreparat. _I knew him from my own time in the program. He is also known to have spent several years as one of the KGB's illegal residents in the United States. After the Soviet Union collapsed, he retired from the KGB and took advantage of the 'privatization' measures instituted by Yeltsin. He made a small fortune for himself by launching several import-export companies, many of which provide cover for his weapons trafficking." _

"Do you know where he kept the strains after they were taken out of Russia?"

"_Of that I cannot be certain. His organization has assets in numerous countries. But the evidence I have seen points to North Korea."_

It took a subtle sort of perception to discern the inclinations of the two analysts, but Reeves' senses were sharpened by years of use. It was clear that ROSTAM had lost both of them completely the second he himself finished the last translation. While they had already been wavering on his mention of the miracle preservative, the final buzzword had been North Korea – its utterance automatically closing and locking the doors to two prejudiced minds. Whatever else ROSTAM told them today would be irrelevant. He had already tainted himself with this one piece of analysis that went outside the DI's current and arbitrary notions of plausibility.

The questioning continued for another hour, the two analysts carefully recording intelligence on which they would never act, Reeves and the other NCS men maintaining their brooding vigil over the proceedings. ROSTAM finally wore out his cigarette, immediately lighting up a new one from the pack in his shirt pocket. He inhaled the noxious fumes greedily, seeming to crave the destruction of his lungs as the expression of some inner self-loathing. His habit was no surprise to Reeves. With all that this man had seen and done in life, he had more reason than most for such things.

The belated end of the interrogation/interview seemed to be in sight when the analyst from Weapons Intelligence fielded one final, though by this point half-hearted question.

"You mentioned earlier that you met Smerdyakov personally several times during your tenure in _Biopreparat_. Your file indicates that in 1985 you spent at least three months at Yasenovo per his request. The information we have is sparse compared to what else we know about your work. What was it you were doing during that time?"

Reeves could sense that the question was a subtle dig at the asset's integrity as he obediently translated it into Russian. ROSTAM might have sensed it too, but the only indication of his thoughts was another drawn-out drag from his cigarette.

"_I was taken to Yasenovo with several other specialists, all of them from different institutes and some from widely disparate fields – microbiology, physics, ballistics, and even meteorology. We were placed on a special task force to evaluate the effectiveness of explosive force for the dissemination of aerosol microbes. We were told to identify the requirements for a biological agent that could maintain its virulence even after being subjected to the most massive types of non-nuclear explosion. We spent a total of six months on the effort. We produced several reports detailing the conclusions of our study, much of them purely speculative. Those were immediately classified by the KGB's Scientific and Technical Directorate, and we were dismissed back to our respective institutions. We never heard anything else through official channels. We had reason to believe, however, that the KGB had used our research to supplement the efforts of a larger project."_

"What was this 'project'?" The dismissiveness in the analyst's voice bordered on a sneer. Reeves pictured his hand connecting hard against the man's jaw as he stoically translated the sentence.

"_We heard certain rumors from time to time. Hints that the KGB was developing plans for a weapon of last resort. Something that could either be used as the ultimate tool of blackmail or be unleashed in the event that our forces entered and lost a full-fledged war against the West. A delivery system for a hypothesized biological strain of exceptional virulence – beyond anything we had ever developed before in _Biopreparat_. The code name was 'Zero'." _

"Can you give any further details?"

"_Details were never forthcoming. We all knew better than to ask any questions about how our work would be used. But several of the researchers on the task force were military engineers who specialized in cluster bombs. Their efforts were given a disproportionate priority by the KGB. That in itself offered many clues about the intended nature of the delivery system. Cluster bombs had been used before as a medium for both biological and chemical weaponry."_

"What would have made this particular system any different from the others developed before it?"

"_As a tool of warfare, cluster bombs are used to disseminate payloads over extended geographical areas rather than destroy specified targets. This makes them ideal for biological or chemical weapons. But they are always designed with built-in limitations. If a strain is disseminated too far, it can strike areas it was never intended to target. One of the worst-case scenarios would be for a strain released in one country to enter the planet's wind-streams, spreading to entirely different areas of the globe and releasing an infection that rages out of control."_

ROSTAM stopped to take another drag from his cigarette as Reeves translated. The analyst was about to ask him another question when he suddenly picked up where he had left off.

"_The Zero system would be different. It would deliberately be detonated high up in the atmosphere – at a point where the aerosol it carried could be maximally disseminated. From there its entry into the wind-streams would be not only possible but ENSURED. It would be carried to every corner of the earth, leaving every single man, woman, and child infected with a viral strain completely resistant to vaccination._ _The human species would be brought to an end._"

For the first time in perhaps the entire interview, both the analysts were rendered speechless. The one from Weapons Intelligence was the first to regain his voice.

"You are telling us that the Soviet Union built a _doomsday_ device?"

"_As far as I know, the system never passed beyond the design stage while _Biopreparat _lasted. What I can be certain of is that it _was _designed, and the plans still exist to this day."_

"On what basis do you believe this?"

Rostam expelled two more streams of smoke from his nostrils before answering.

"_Yuri Smerdyakov came to Marzanabad in person. I met with him there for the first time in years. He was offering me a deal – a chance to set myself for life if I left my service in the Russian government and came to work for his organization. He showed me a copy of the report I had helped draft all those years ago at Yasenovo. He said that my contributions had already proved invaluable to him and that they could still continue to be so. He also showed me something else – a blueprint."_

* * *

The disgust Reeves felt as he departed the safe house with his NCS counterparts was close to physical sickness. Those two charlatans who called themselves analysts had just been handed intelligence for which others before them would have given their right arm. Inside access to a dark void formerly sealed against American penetration. The Agency had never had an asset like ROSTAM. Ever.

And everything he could offer them had just been spurned by a pair of close-minded fools who would see to it that the results of this interview would never reach policy-makers' ears. All he had told them had just been written off as the paranoid delusions of an imaginative crank, his ideas forever tainted by their foray outside accepted paradigms. SPECTRE-like cabals spreading destruction for profit. Miracle preservatives. Dead microbes restored to life. Doomsday weapons. As far as they were concerned it was all the stuff of fantasy – firmly sequestered between the pages of cheap paperbacks.

And nothing would ever convince them otherwise until those very things came knocking on their doorstep.

The most maddening part of it all was that they had chosen to shut down their minds when Rostam mentioned what should have been the most plausible part of his story. Just a few short years ago, no one in the Agency would have dismissed outright such a mention of North Korea and still be considered fully competent – or even fully sane. But the new narrative had now fully entrenched itself and was not going anywhere. The so-called 'end' of the Kim regime had been embraced by policy-makers at all levels with just as much – even more - naiveté as a generation before them had greeted the end of the Soviet Union. Never mind that the blood-drenched apparatchiks of the Korean Workers' Party remained unseated from power. Never mind that one-half of a massive military machine had vanished overnight and remained unaccounted for. Never mind that a vast network of nightmarish labor camps had somehow evaporated into thin air along with their inmates. Never mind that the man who all the world hailed as the Korean Gorbachev had come to power by liquidating the remnants of the Kim dynasty with as little mercy as they had shown their own enemies in the days of their rule.

As far as Washington – and Langley – was concerned, North Korea was now officially an "ally", with political and economic ties to the United States as deep as those of Saudi Arabia or China. And that was all that mattered. Anyone who contradicted that vision, people like ROSTAM and himself, were an annoyance to be swept away.

For the sake the world, he could almost wish that vision was correct.

**Langley, Virginia**

**CIA Headquarters**

**August 21, 20_**

_9:32 EST_

As he had always done, Dylan Reeves kept his inner thoughts hidden beneath the calm, ordered veneer that came with his military training, showing no emotion as he marched evenly down the dark hallway of the CIA's Old Headquarters. His mood had not improved over the last few days, but he had long resigned to his inability to change either his feelings or the circumstances that had had produced them. He had maintained not the slightest bit of hope that he would be kept onboard the ROSTAM assignment, and his premonitions had proved completely correct. He could still recall in every detail the conversation several days before that had brought him to his present standing.

Shortly after ROSTAM's exfiltration and the interview that followed, Reeves had been called in for an almost unheard of meeting with David Galush, Director of the National Clandestine Service. After exchanging coolly formal pleasantries, Galush had invited him to take a seat facing his desk. Reeves silently complied, waiting for the Director to open the conversation. He knew precisely the reason for why he had been summoned and the basics of what his boss would be saying.

The debriefing had already taken place long before, and Galush spent only a few minutes recapping the basics of the mission and Reeve's own record before coming to what they both knew was the real reason for meeting.

"The fact remains, Mr. Reeves, that you _executed_ two Russian nationals." the Director's piercing eyes had bored into his own in a prolonged stare. Unflinching, Reeves had held the gaze, his response immediate.

"I was forced to engage two agents of the Russian SVR, operating on Iranian soil, who opposed my mission with deadly force. It was justifiable homicide, cut and dry. I did no more than was necessary to preserve my own operational viability and that of the asset."

He had spoken with far less tact than would have been advisable for a case officer with less seniority. But Reeves had been with the agency for seven years and was in no mood to put on airs. Galush, fully aware of this fact, answered him without the slightest hint of provocation.

"We're not here to argue about justification, Mr. Reeves. If we were, my job today would be a lot simpler."

Reeves maintained his rigid pose in silence, knowing what was coming but waiting for Galush to continue.

"The facts, Mr. Reeves, are this. Your record with the Agency up to this point has been flawless. Strictly from a professional standpoint, your actions at Marzanabad are the same that would have been – and _should be_ - taken by any other agent in your circumstances and with your training. But we're not speaking strictly from a professional standpoint. You've been in this business long enough to know that politics trumps common sense."

The Director leafed through several sheets of the report on his desk, dividing his attention between its contents and Reeves as he continued. "There are some highly-placed people – both on Capitol Hill and Pennsylvania Avenue, Mr. Reeves, who you have made very unhappy. Regardless of how justified you were in your actions, no one in Washington is interested in reigniting the Cold War. The State Department right now is practically demanding your head – as, I might add, is your station chief."

Reeves kept his opinion on that last point to himself. He cared about the sentiments of Conrad Valdez – the station chief to which he had answered in Iran – far less than he did those of anyone else. The man was an arrogant blowhard who had not the slightest understanding of the risks and necessities of intelligence work. He had been handed the position and arbitrary powers of a CIA station chief as a political favor for his work in the President's election campaign.

"With all that being said, Mr. Reeves, my decision today has to weigh two conflicting requirements. On the one hand, you did absolutely nothing outside accepted procedure in the field, and you've proven yourself too valuable an asset to the Agency for simple dismissal. Lord knows we have few enough of your type left in the NCS as it is. You also have a head full of classified intelligence. That's not something we can afford to just cut loose any time soon.

"On the other hand, there's too much pressure from above for us to ignore this time. Passing you over for yet _another _promotion isn't going to cut it. You've quite obviously demonstrated how little such things mean to you in the past."

"I belong in the field." Reeves broke his silence. "I'm not about to trade that for a desk job."

"As I've just said, you've made that crystal clear. Unfortunately, in this case I have to make sure you receive something resembling genuine penance."

Reeves patiently waited for him to continue. He could guess the Director's decision and knew he wouldn't like it.

Galush gave him a meaningful look for several seconds before retrieving a bound folder from his desk which he proffered in Reeves' direction.

"As of this moment, you're being temporarily re-assigned until further notice. Upon leaving this room you will be effectively outside my jurisdiction. Your instructions will be found in here."

Reeves had only to glance at the report for a second before understanding its contents.

"With all due respect, sir," he spoke again in a toneless voice, letting the words themselves communicate the protest. "I'm not an analyst. I've spent my career as case officer. I don't have the qualifications for this kind of work."

Galush looked at him with something resembling amusement. "That's an unusually respectful way for a NCS officer to describe the DI. It tells me just how little this assignment appeals to you. Which is exactly why you're going to take it. Penance, Mr. Reeves. Remember that while you're cooling your heels. You are dismissed."

Reeves swallowed the further protests that were threatening to rise in his throat, knowing they would be futile. He obediently rose from his chair with the report in hand and turned to exit the Director's office. At the door, he briefly stopped and turned around. "How long until I get back in the field?"

Galush looked up from his desk. "I'd be very careful about asking that question, Mr. Reeves. I could give you any number of estimates. But the answer I have to give my superiors is 'never'."

The Director's last words still rang in his ears as Reeves finally arrived at the door that was his intended destination. He took a moment to study the vault sign before swiping his badge through the reader.

**CIA RED CELL**

**THE MOST DANGERIOUS IDEAS IN THE WORLD**

Unlike the more junior officers outside the DI, Reeves was basically familiar with the Cell's activities. A so-called "alternative analysis unit" established in the aftermath of 9/11 by then-CIA Director George Tenet. Its intended purpose at the time was to avoid a repeat of the intelligence failures leading up to the destruction of the Twin Towers. Its analysts were expressly instructed to "think outside the box", to consider possibilities overlooked or rejected by mainstream circles.

That, of course, made the unit a pariah within the larger DI network. The CIA's analysts did _not _like being told that they were wrong.

And it made the ideal purgatory for a not-quite-dispensable but still inconvenient case officer.

The vault Reeves stepped into was distinct from the usual office space assigned to federal employees. Predictably cramped, it consisted of a bullpen, conference room, and manager's office. The wall on the far side was glass from floor to ceiling, through which the New Headquarters could be clearly seen across the dividing yard. The rest of the walls were obscured beneath a mélange of marker boards, geographical maps, and news reports, some of them political cartoons.

The east and west walls depicted a rather ingenious dichotomy, the former displaying a full-body portrait of Vladimir Lenin while the latter housed multiple black-and-white photographs of a young Ronald Reagan in cowboy attire – in the midst of which stood a framed _Economist _cover entitled "The Man Who Destroyed Communism."

At the moment there was only one other occupant in the room. Reeves had to look twice before his presence fully registered. Standing at only a few inches past five feet, he was dressed in a blue shirt and khakis several sizes too large, causing them to sag noticeably on a gaunt frame. The diminutive figure was currently standing in front of a white marker board, scribbling haphazard diagrams with a red marker, seemingly oblivious to his visitor.

Reeves studied the figure with a bemused expression for approximately two seconds before clearing his throat loudly.

"Ethan Croft. Analytic methodologist." The figure spoke his own name without turning around or ceasing his intensive scribbling. "I take it you're the charity case they've stuck me with from now until whenever."

The blatant jab was an annoyance, but Reeves ignored it. "Dylan Reeves. I've been temporarily transferred here from NCS."

"Translation: you're the big bad operative who annoyed the wrong people and is now doing time in the dumping ground until you learn to respect the opinion of your betters. Welcome to the asylum. "

The man finally pulled his attention away from the marker board and turned around to face his visitor for the first time, offering his hand. A shock of golden blonde hair contrasted strangely with the gray, cadaverous appearance of his face. High, prominent cheekbones stuck out from under sunken eyes in blackened sockets. His skin was pale as death, as if he deliberately avoided sunlight whenever possible. If it hadn't been for the sharp, active intelligence of his green eyes, the effect would have been almost zombie-like.

It was also plainly clear that he had never done any sort of field work or fired a shot in anger. The man looked for all the world like some kind of washed-out computer hacker ensconced in the basement of an aging parent.

"You have a blunt way of putting things." Reeves answered him dryly as he accepted the offered hand. Croft's shake was limp and weak. The hand cold and clammy.

"It comes with working in the Red Cell. If people liked me, I'd know I wasn't doing my job."

"You seem a little short on manpower today." Reeves took another glance around the vault. His eyes briefly fell on a framed quotation resting on one of the walls: _You don't have a soul. You ARE a soul. You HAVE a body. _The statement's vaguely religious undertones seemed out of place in its surroundings. Even bizarre.

"Everyone's here today who's supposed to be here. Namely, you and me. Makes things a bit crowded, I know, but we can manage just as long as you keep your hands off my donuts and don't spill any coffee on my study materials."

Reeves noticed the haphazard stack of volumes on the table for the first time. The titles were a rather eclectic mix, all of them novels. _A Canticle for Leibowitz_ was stacked atop a pile that included _Ender's Game_, Frank Herbert's _Dune_, various Star Trek and Star Wars novelizations, and works by authors such as Dean Koontz, Stephen King, and Ted Dekker. The library-in-miniature included only one tome that seemed vaguely relevant to the work of a CIA analyst: _Red Storm Rising _by Tom Clancy.

"Study materials."

"I'm paid to see fact where others see fiction. I use these to expand my outlook. I'll have you know I've hit on some of my most ingenious theories while perusing the pages of Card, Asimov, and Clarke."

"A bit unconventional for a man of your profession, wouldn't you agree?"

"Of course it is. I'm here to break conventions."

A small spark of cognitive dissonance in the back of Reeves' mind was starting to erupt into a full-fledged fire. It was as if he had been plucked from the midst of a raging inferno to be placed at the center of an iceberg – from facing the opposition of close-minded obscurantists to grappling with the madness of a wild-eyed fantasist. _This _was the "analyst" with whom he was expected to work for the next six months to a year?

Ethan Croft smiled, obviously pleased at the discomfort Reeves was still unable to fully hide despite his training. "It's good to see I still have that effect on people. Tells me I haven't lost my edge."

What on earth had he just gotten himself into?


	7. Chapter 7

**Los Angeles, California**

**Former CIA Safe House**

**October 22, 20_**

_2:59 PST _

"What you are saying is impossible."

"The proof of what I'm telling you right now is in that picture. And I truly hope you aren't going to insult both my intelligence and yours by suggesting I cooked the image. I used a piece of _your _technology to obtain it."

Jenna shook her head as much to order her reeling thoughts as express her doubt. What he had just finished describing to her was inconceivable. The stuff of nightmares. Human artifice used for the most cruel and horrifying ends imaginable. Knowledge that should have been used for healing and medicine perverted towards the creation of affliction and plague.

"It doesn't make logical sense," she reiterated. "You are suggesting that a group of impossibly organized conspirators not only managed to construct such a weapon, but were able to keep it hidden for over a decade and refrained from using it during that entire period of time. If this device can do what you say it can, what possible reason could they have had to wait? In human bodies, my kind are no more and no less susceptible to disease than yours. Nothing about our arrival would make it more effective for its intended purpose. Unless, of course, these humans you're speaking of are so profoundly evil that they wished to wipe out both their own race _and _mine."

"Physical susceptibility to the weapon may not be the reason they waited at all," Reeves responded tonelessly. "Building the delivery system would have been one thing – engineering a microbial strain virulent enough to survive an explosive force and disseminate itself through the planet's airstreams is another. Nothing like it exists in nature. Developing it from scratch would be a process taking years. There's also a very significant paradox to a doomsday device: it's built precisely to ensure that it never has to be used - that's a basic tenet of game theory. A system like this is meant to be used as a bargaining chip – or an insurance policy against the failure of something else. There could be a variety of factors at play. Your people changed a lot of things about this world when you came. There's a very significant phrase on that recording I just played for you – 'easier to control'. They may very well have waited because they thought you would be more susceptible to blackmail – 'Do our bidding and you will live. Disobey, and _everyone_ will die.' "

The unnatural chill swept through her body again at his casual use of such words. She forced herself to look him in the eye once more.

"You truly believe that this device exists?"

"I don't think. I _know_. I've seen the blueprints. Ten years ago I risked my life and ended several others to ensure the safe passage of a man who participated in the design. If that man and others like him had survived the final attempts on their lives, history would remember it as the crowning achievement of _Biopreparat_."

Jenna knew enough of human history to recognize the significance of the last word he used. She had come across it far too many times in the more analytical portion of her training.

"Why are you telling me all of this? What is it you have to gain?"

Reeves held her gaze in silence for several seconds, weighing his answer before his spoke. "I have every reason to regard your people as my enemies. And I'm prepared to do what is necessary if and when any of them interfere with my purposes. But I have very little left to fight for that they haven't already taken. And it's impossible for even a million men – let alone one – to turn back the clock. Whatever the rights and wrongs of your coming here, it doesn't change the fact that you _are_ here. Whoever these murderers are, whatever it really is they're trying to accomplish, it's as much a threat to you as it is to me. I have one thing to gain – the truth. And to achieve that goal, I will use the tools at hand. Right now, you and your people are the only ones available."

His words were spoken evenly and without volume. Yet the logic in them was as forceful as if he had screamed at the top of his lungs. Jenna's instinctive wariness was suddenly at war with a strange desire to trust this man. She closed her eyes, trying once again to clear her head.

"I have to get back to my Chapter." She spoke her decision aloud. "They will take action if I tell them about this. They might even allow you to retain your freedom. If you come with me -"

A hand, held palm up, suddenly stopped her in mid-sentence. Reeves was slowly shaking his head back and forth, a painful wince on his face. "I'm afraid that's going to be a bit of a problem." He held up a black remote, undoing the mute on a television screen behind her that she had never been aware was turned on.

"-_breaking news that the remains of Seeker Jenna Kirkwood have been found several hours after her abduction by the human fugitive Dylan Reeves. Apparently extracted from her host, she is believed to have died from exposure –" _

Jenna whipped her head violently in the direction of the screen, unable to believe the words she was hearing. The blood drained from her face as she listened to the rest of the nonsensical report. She had encountered many new concepts on Earth that had been virtually unknown in her previous lives. Falsehood was one of them. She had heard of it, even learned how to use it in her Calling as a Seeker. But she had never – ever – heard statements blatantly contrary to fact put forth by souls to be received as truth by their own. It was as if the laws of the universe itself had suddenly been reversed.

The report detailed other things. The earlier information given on Dylan Reeves was read off again, re-emphasizing his deadly tendencies and the necessity of the kill-on-sight instructions issued to the Seekers. There was even a mention of his tools of disguise, now belatedly deduced. The final item froze the blood in Jenna's veins.

"_- while her host remains unaccounted for, Seekers are not ruling out the possibility that Reeves has found out how to safely perform extractions. We are therefore issuing an additional alert on the host of Jenna Kirkwood, who will also be considered armed and dangerous given the skills she would have obtained as a Seeker. If she is found alive, she would no longer be considered suitable as a host given her capacity for resistance –"_

"No."

"_- and would be terminated on sight-"_

"NO!"

Jenna yanked forward against the ropes that held her to the chair, almost succeeded in lifting it with her off the floor. "WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?! I'M ALIVE! I'M _ALIVE_!" The shout ripped through her lungs, echoing off the walls of the empty building around her – heard by none. The strain of everything she had gone through over the last several hours finally broke through her training. She collapsed back against the chair, sobbing uncontrollably.

Reeves pressed the mute button again on his remote, cutting off the offending report in mid-sentence. He allowed her some time to cry herself out before kneeling down behind her chair. It was only as she felt the ropes loosen that she realized what was happening.

"What are you doing?" She managed to choke out the words in a cracked voice.

"As of now, I no longer have any reason for these." He continued to speak as he untied the knots. "I don't mean to rub salt in open wounds, but you're under a death sentence now. Just like me. There's nowhere else for you to possibly go and remain alive."

"I…I don't understand." Her voice broke again as fresh tears leaked out of her eyes, fixated again on the muted screen. "Why would they…?"

"If it's any comfort at all, your people haven't betrayed you. I've observed your kind long enough to know that they don't lie. Not to each other. They're only repeating what they've been told. Someone planted that story and the evidence to go with it. The one they told about me was just as false. Based on what I've told you tonight, I think you can connect the dots."

"Those...those humans you told me about…"

"Are either very desperate or very confident." He finished undoing the ropes, helping his former captive to her feet. "Given what I saw on the _Odyssey_, I'm putting my money on the latter. The last time I saw tactics like this was almost a decade ago. Eventually, it will come out that those stories don't add up. But their authors apparently believe that by that time it won't matter anymore."

He handed a handkerchief to Jenna which she accepted gratefully, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. After allowing her a moment to regain her composure, Reeves made his way back over to the table, picking up a large black object that she recognized as his Kevlar vest. Strapping it on, he began collecting the various items on the table.

"Right now, the first thing we're going to have to do is get out of Los Angeles. It would take them a long time, but eventually the Seekers _will _find this place. Some of the hosts they took were almost certainly CIA personnel. They would know the locations of any former safe houses. And the Seekers won't be the only ones looking for us. Whoever planted those stories quite obviously wants both of us dead. And if the Seekers don't do the job for them they're liable to take matters into their own hands."

Jenna quietly placed the handkerchief in her pocket. Feeling partially recovered from her brief breakdown, her training began to kick back in, restoring strength. She regarded him again with cautious eyes. "How do I know I can trust you?"

"I'm not asking you to trust me any more than I trust you. Catch."

A Glock was casually tossed in her direction as if it had been no more than a children's toy. Jenna caught it in the nick of time, smoothly holstering it in an instinctive reaction. The action inwardly impressed her – the handgun was not a light object to throw.

"What about the _Odyssey_? The bomb is still there –"

"And it will be staying there for at least the next two days, if not more. The Seekers will have impounded it to search for any signs of sabotage or explosives. Moving it at this point would look suspicious – even to your people. It's not a lot of time for us, but it's breathing room. Until then, I have a place where we won't have to worry about anyone finding us. A place where we can re-supply and plan things out. Only one other person ever knew about it besides me."

He had turned to face her right before the last statement, and she thought she saw a brief shadow of emotion, perhaps grief, flicker across his face. The hint of a painful memory that he immediately pushed back into the depths of his mind. The familiarly stoic mask dominated his face once more.

"We're going to need a vehicle," he continued, shouldering on the leather windbreaker to conceal the Kevlar vest. "That will be a challenge, but one I've dealt with before. Follow my lead, and we can both get out of here alive."

Reeves opened the door to the room and stepped into the hall of the larger building without even looking behind to see if she was following him. She followed obediently, feeling for the second time in the last several minutes that her entire world had turned upside down.

**Tucson, Arizona**

**October 22, 20_**

_2:40 MST _

"Healer Fords?"

Fords felt an inward release of tension as he finally heard the knock on his apartment door that he had been waiting for. The local Seekers had finally arrived. It had been little more than twenty minutes, but it had felt like hours. He rose immediately from the chair he'd been occupying since the call and made straight for the door, undoing the lock he had never before had occasion to use.

He swung it open swiftly, nearly sick with relief. "Thank goodness you're –"

The greeting died in his throat the second he saw the gun barrel aimed straight between his eyes.

A massive blond-haired hulk of a man regarded him with ice-cold eyes from behind a large pistol that still seemed almost dwarfed by his hands. Two other men stood behind him, their right hands placed upon shoulder-holstered weapons partially concealed by dark trench coats. They regarded him with gazes of steel.

The first man, keeping his weapon locked in position, spoke just above a whisper in harshly accented English. "One sound and you will die."

The terrified Healer couldn't have made any sound if he had wanted to. He backed away in automatic compliance as the three men strode noiselessly into the room, shutting the door behind them. The blond-haired one, by all appearances the leader, never moved his weapon so much as an inch while his two companions took up position on each side of their newly acquired hostage. Fords felt something cold and metallic press against his left ribcage.

"We are carrying automatic weapons. His is pointed at your heart." The blond giant indicated the man on Fords' left with a small tilt of his head. "You will accompany all of us out of this building where a vehicle will be waiting. If you attempt in any way to resist or call out for aid, your life will end tonight. Obey us and you may live to see another sunrise."

None of them waited for Fords to respond. The metal object – now unmistakably a gun barrel - pressed closer into his ribcage, a signal for him to move. His legs obediently began walking forward, his mind having entered a detached state of unreality. The leader holstered his own weapon, opening the door for the other two to hustle Fords out into the hallway and down the stairs out of the building. There was a black SUV parked just outside, another man standing guard beside its open side-door. Fords was forced into the middle of the back seat, between his two guards. The leader climbed into the front passenger seat.

The entire abduction had been completed in exactly one minute. There had been no witnesses whatsoever.

The leader passed a black cloth bag to one of the guards in the back seat, who immediately pulled it over Fords' head. Effectively blinded, the Healer felt something cold and metallic lock against both his wrists with a distinctive "_click_". Handcuffs.

The vehicle roared off into the darkness, its destination somewhere far outside Tucson.

**South Dakota **

**Black Hills National Forest **

**October 22, 20_**

_2:42 MST_

It was a wonder how much a man learned about himself when truly alone. Seven years he had spent in this place, always on the move, yet never venturing forth from the bounds he had imposed upon himself from the day he came. It was an existence that in a previous time he would have never wished upon his worst enemies. But companionship now meant danger. Civilization was death.

The years he had spent living off the forests and hills surrounding him had stripped away any and all illusions carried on from his previous life. The first three years had been particularly revealing. The fertile, active mind that had been his treasured companion since childhood was exposed as the double-edged sword it truly was. It had nearly driven him insane. He had found himself trapped in the most abstract and irrelevant philosophical speculations as he struggled to perform the mundane, practical tasks of survival, hunting game, gathering wood, and building fire.

But eventually the dearth of stimulation had slowly starved that portion of his thoughts into oblivion. It had been a relief to him when he finally woke up one morning to find his imagination was dead.

One less thing now divided him from the animals whose lot he had come to envy. It always left him in awe how Nature and her children had simply continued on, completely unaware of their world's change in masters. The bird continued in flight, the wolf in hunt, perpetuating a cycle ordained and unbroken from the dawn of time. A living testament to the vanity of all human works.

He had discovered other things as well. Food was luxury. The human body could survive for weeks without it. Predators in the wild did so their entire lives - daily meals were something they knew only in captivity. It was water that was truly essential. And even it could be rationed.

He had also quickly learned not to let his actions be dictated by pain or the fear of it. Pain of all sorts was inescapable. Broken or dislocated limbs had to be set back into place. Necrotic flesh had to be scraped away from healing burns. Infected wounds had to be bled out. The alternative was death.

One of the greatest illusions he had carried with him from civilization had quickly been dispelled. Almost everyone believed that there were certain things in life to which death was preferable. That a man deprived of all attachments, all possessions, all comforts both of mind and body could embrace it readily, finding rest in a sweet oblivion. Such people had never truly attempted to destroy themselves. They had never had to grapple with their own instinctive need to survive.

Even now, racked with pain and hunger, his wasted flesh remained a precious thing. In the final analysis, a life like this truly was better than no life at all.

So tired…

He could not stop. He had to continue on until he was once again deep inside the forest that had been his home for the past seven years. Safely isolated once again. Neither endangered nor endangering anyone else.

It had been a rare fit of desperation that had made him venture outside. Even now, he was inwardly cursing himself for it. What had the call to Thomas Leben – or whoever he had become – truly accomplished? It was too late already, the war lost before it had even begun. There was nothing left.

Only death.

The fevers had returned. Dormant for years, they were back with all the ferocity with which they had assaulted him in the first seven months. The foul, insidious Presence inside his body had at long last arisen one last time to devour its own abode. There was nothing that could sate its ravenous hunger. Not even a world.

Somehow he knew that the remaining hours of his life could now be counted on his fingers. Perhaps that was what driven him to such inexcusable recklessless. One final, pathetic attempt at absolution from the sin that continued to haunt his dreams.

Sin…

Perhaps, finally, all of this was meant to be. The Final Sentence handed down upon all the evil this world had seen. The door had shut. Grace was withdrawn.

He had read countless books in his life. He now remembered almost none. But a single passage - lifted from what had once been to him simply one book among many - continued to fill his mind as it had done every day for the past seven years.

_And God saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually._

_And it repented the Lord that he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him at his heart._

He had no more tears for the seed of Adam. Their reward was just and equal. According to their works. He would weep for them no more.

The tears he shed were for the Others. What had been their crime? Truly? That they had taken a world from the hands of unworthy stewards? Had not even the Hebrews of old – who had shown far less mercy - been justified in such?

It was his own kindred who deserved what was to come. Not them.

His feet continued to carry him forward of their own accord. He was now almost completely unaware of his surroundings, his mind consumed by the fever ravaging his body. The air was by no means warm. And yet his clothing was drenched with sweat. His eyes stared forward, unfocused and useless. The world about him was losing shape, dissolving into an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of chaos. Still he continued forward.

He no longer heard any sound but his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears. And yet he heard a voice, whispering from every direction, every shadow.

_Yield unto me, and thou shalt be healed._

It was a silken voice, purring and seductive. Promising comfort, rest, relief.

_Accept me, and thou shalt live. _

There was a figure now, stepping out from the mist of the shadow that covered everything. His countenance beautiful, god-like, his eyes suffused with an immortal light. A hand was offered, beckoning.

Kneel _before me._

The shining light within the eyes turned now to flame. The voice no longer seduced. It commanded. Its tone suffused with a cruel hatred no longer concealed.

"NO!"

A new strength surged through his weakened body, born of a primal, knowing fear. Impossibly, manically, he ran.

There was only one "god" that reigned in fire.

Time and space lost all meaning. His body all feeling. His senses all perception. He could only run. Run from the Death behind him. He did so perhaps for hours. Perhaps for years. It no longer mattered.

He never knew when or where his body finally gave out. He would have no memory of the voices that shouted out for him to identify himself. His sightless eyes never saw the armed figures that emerged from the darkness to surround him – unlike his Pursuer, clothed in flesh and blood.

Darkness fell.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chicago, IL**

**Loyola University Medical Center – Operating Room**

**Ten Years Earlier**

**August 14, 20_**

_9:30 CST_

The attending physician was Dr. Ari Ramanujan. The senior resident assisting him in the operation was Dr. Lincoln Theodor White. He was currently in the last of the seven years constituting his neurosurgical residency at Loyola. For someone aged only thirty-four who had been forced to repeat his last year of premed, that was no small accomplishment. This would be the latest of hundreds of operations in which he'd participated during his senior residency.

Dr. Ramanujan had been impressed with White from the very beginning. He possessed a natural feel for the work that many surgeons had difficulty acquiring even after years of training. His hand-eye coordination alone was remarkable, to say nothing of his focus. As such, he allowed the young resident to take a far greater role in his operations than that accorded to his peers, as would be done today. It was quite obvious that the young man would go far.

The patient, a dark-haired Caucasian male in his mid-forties, lay supine upon on the operating table. Already anesthetized, his lungs expanded and contracted in a shallow, automatic motion. The left side of his head had been shaved and marked, with a moon-shaped incision line inked from the widow's peak across to the zygomatic arch. A Mayfield clamp held his head in place, tilted thirty degrees to the right and slightly extended.

There were several other surgeons in the room, all of them residents. One, Dr. Thomas Leben, was a senior resident like White himself, while the others were a mixture of intermediate and junior residents, attending as part of their rotation. The former would be taking a far more active role than the latter, whose presence was as much for educational purposes as to assist the procedure itself.

The surgical field was prepped, the patient's body soon concealed beneath a mixture of cloth that included sterile towels and a craniotomy drape. There was a show of hands, each person stating their name, specialty, and role to play in the procedure. Dr. Ramanujan proceeded to explain the patient's medical history, the purpose of the operation, and the techniques to be used. This took approximately ten minutes.

The switch was then flipped on a portable radio. The operating room was immediately filled with the sound of Bach's _Ouverture No. 3 in D Major_. This was the signal that the true work would now begin. Momentarily closing his eyes, Dr. White felt his mind order and calm itself under the influence of the soothing melodies, preparing him for the task ahead. Few outsiders understood how indispensable background music truly was to a surgeon's work. Each doctor had their own preference. Some chose contemporary tunes such as Hip-Hop, Rock, and Jam. He himself had always preferred the classics, seeing in them the ultimate expression of the profoundly ordered beauty underlying the human mind and body. This preference immensely pleased Dr. Ramanujan, whose cultural and educational background gave him an instinctive distaste for all modern music.

They began the procedure in the standard fashion, beginning with the large, circular incision on the scalp. The flap of external skin was peeled back and held in place with steel clips, allowing them to proceed with the dissection of the temporalis muscle, separating it from the skull. Bleeding was quickly dealt with by a suction tube.

It was at this point that the true "craniotomy" began. A four-by-four centimeter portion of the bone was carved into a circular flap using a high-speed drill, cushioned by purified beeswax. The flap was then elevated, exposing the layer of dura tissue covering the brain. This was incised, revealing the cortical surface.

In very little time afterward, they had identified the left temporal and frontal lobes of the brain. The frontal lobe was retracted superiorly, the temporal posteriorly. Both retractors were locked into place, holding the two lobes in position. This done, the object of the surgery was now uncovered – a malignant mass of cancerous tissue at the base of the skull.

It was here that the most painstaking, time-consuming part of the operation commenced. Precision surgical tools were used to pick the tumor apart piece by piece, taking care not to damage the surrounding cortical tissue. This procedure could not be rushed under any circumstances, regardless of the surgeon's natural human instincts to cut out the offending blight as soon as possible. The process dragged on for over an hour in and of itself.

The tumor gone, the final, anticlimactic but still essential, phase of the procedure began. The metal retractors were withdrawn, releasing the temporal and frontal lobes to resume their natural position. The dura was replaced over the cerebral matter, with tiny metallic micro-plates and screws added to hold it together. The flap of skull bone was sutured back into place with the same materials, as was the temporalis muscle and scalp. The patient would now be moved to post-op for recovery. The surgeons turned in their tools for cleaning and went to change their scrubs, each feeling an exhausted, sweat-drenched sensation of accomplishment.

In the space of five hours, another human being had regained his chance at life.

The packed schedule of a senior resident left precious few minutes for any sort of downtime even outside the hospital, let alone inside it. On call 24 hours, Physicians and nurses of all stripes were accorded only minutes at a time to scarf down essential nutrients (usually found in vending machines) before returning to their duties. It was a rare occasion indeed that saw two of them sitting together over an actual meal in the doctor's lounge, flush with the conclusion of the surgery they had just performed.

No longer cloaked in the gown, cap and mask he had worn in the OR, Dr. White's olive-skinned face was thin and sharp with an aquiline nose. His black curly hair gave him an almost Middle Eastern appearance. Those who guessed his ethnic origins would not have been entirely incorrect. He was, in fact, partially Jewish on the side of his mother, who had been born in Israel.

Dr. Leben's appearance was somewhat of a foil to his darker companion. His comparatively pale complexion was accentuated by a shock of red hair that he had difficulty keeping combed. Starting the process of growing a full-beard beard after years of being clean-shaven, his chin was covered with a thin layer of stubble that was just enough to create the impression of dishevelment.

At this time, both men were picking up where they had left off in the same perpetually amiable debate they had been conducting since they became best friends in medical school. Raised Catholic, Leben had spent most of his adult life as an agnostic. White, while still far from conventionally religious, had been powerfully influenced by the example and teachings of his grandfather – an Orthodox Jewish rabbi who, while crestfallen at his daughter's marriage outside her lineage, had personally taken up the education of his grandson. The many lessons under his grandfather's tutelage - drinking in the precepts of the Pentateuch, the Talmud, and all the great thinkers of Judaism – had given him far more than a connection to his ancient heritage. They had shaped his entire conception of the world around him.

Leben could still remember the very first day their Great Conversation had commenced at the Stritch School of Medicine. They had both happened to be studying at the same desk in the library. Leben was preparing for an upcoming exam in his Behavioral Medicine and Development course. White, who was enrolled in both the University's MD/Ph.D and Bioethics programs, had been taking notes for his upcoming thesis. Thinking out loud, Leben had made what he considered an offhand comment about the impact of genetics on human behavior.

White's reaction had been completely unexpected. He immediately put aside his notes and study material to look Leben fully in the eye.

"Tom, genetics has absolutely nothing to do with our moral obligations. Every single one of us is born with a congenital personality defect of some stripe or another. For some it's a propensity to anger. For others it's obsession, perversion, recklessness, or whatever else. But that does not change the fact that killing someone in a fit of rage results in a charge of murder, or that acting out on twisted urges results in a charge of rape. Our natural instincts are only part of the story – unlike every other species on this earth, we have the ability to think, to reason, and to discern right and wrong."

From there, he had proceeded on an extended, passionate diatribe expounding a fully fleshed philosophy of free will and natural law, directly quoting dozens of philosophers, thinkers, and theologians (both ancient and modern) from memory alone. Leben had, of course, been taken aback, even a bit abashed. But White's enthusiasm was infectious, and he soon found himself in the midst of what had been up to that point the most intellectually stimulating discussion of his education. It was the first of many more to come.

From that day forward, throughout the rest of medical school and all seven years of their residency at Loyola, they had always made time to continue their debates. The fact that they never agreed with one another 100 percent made things all the more enjoyable. White proved to be a brilliant thinker with a vast and eclectic range of interests, able to discourse at length on medicine, biology, astronomy, philosophy, jurisprudence, and almost every subject under the sun. All of his opinions in these areas were underlain by a powerful belief in a divine order. Leben had once commented to him that he seemed to have missed his true calling, he should have gone into theology.

White's response had been a chuckling come-back. "For a man as skeptical as yourself, Tom, you're sounding a lot like my grandfather."

In a way, Leben thought, Lincoln White had been born several centuries too late. He should have lived during the Renaissance, before the arts and sciences had been so rigidly delineated into their several fields. When a man could, like da Vinci, 'do all things if he will.'

Sometimes Leben felt the deepest kind of pity for his friend. It was almost cruel that a mind like Lincoln White's was forced to sequester itself into a single specialized discipline. Neurosurgery could be a supremely rewarding field for its practitioners, to which he himself could personally attest. But White clearly had an insatiable thirst to learn and to accomplish far more than he would ever be able to do within its bounds – or even those of a single lifetime. The very reason he had been forced to repeat his last year of premed was that he had tried to absorb and apply too much at once, attempting to perform his own research in genetics, embryology, neurology, ecology, astrophysics, and theology even as he studied for his final exams. Reality had dealt him a harsh blow.

Perhaps one day, having concluded a successful career in medicine, White finally would be able to sit down and devote all his time to constructing his long-awaited "theory of everything." Until then, both of them would continue to sharpen each others' minds in their ongoing philosophical dialogue. At this moment, they were grappling with a question that vastly overshadowed all others.

"You're making very good points, Link, but none of what you're saying absolutely _proves _the existence of a Supreme Being," Leben countered his friend's latest argument. There was no ill will in his statement. The intent behind it was as much to see what White's response would be as to demonstrate his own opinion.

"You are absolutely correct, Tom. Nothing I say can or will positively demonstrate the existence of God. But in a court of law, no piece of evidence can ever _absolutely_ prove anything. It can only establish something as true beyond a reasonable doubt.

"Let' start with something we can both accept as fact. The existence of an effect requiring the existence of an efficient cause implies the existence and action of that cause. Are you agreeing with me so far?"

"Certainly." A slight smile played across Leben's lips. He could tell this was going to be interesting.

"Now here's something we can definitely agree on: the universe we see around us exists."

"No argument there."

"Now let's take that a step further," White continued. "The existence of our universe is radically contingent – that is, it needs an efficient cause of its continuing existence to prevent it from becoming _nonexistent_. Let me explain a little bit what I mean by that.

"The universe we see around us is only _possible_ rather than _necessary_. That means that it is one of many possible universes that might exist as opposed to the only universe that can ever exist. We see this in the fact that the present mixture of order and disorder in our universe could have been otherwise – different from what it is. There is no compelling reason to believe that the natural laws we see at work in this universe are the only possible natural laws. We see chance and randomness occurring alongside lawful behavior. Even the basic building blocks of our universe, electrons, and protons, may not be the building blocks for a different universe.

"Given what I have just said, let's move on to another step in this argument. Something that is capable of being otherwise in its form is also something that is capable of nonexistence. Something that is incapable of being otherwise from its actual form is also something that is incapable of existence. Our universe, however, exists, meaning that it is capable of being otherwise from what it now is.

"Now given the fact that our universe is only one of many possible ones, and is therefore radically contingent, it requires a cause of its existence. Otherwise, it would not exist at all. Furthermore, this cause must necessarily be supernatural. It has to be something capable of creating this universe out of nothing and preventing the realization of what is always possible for a contingent universe – its reduction to nonexistence.

"Now, it is still possible to argue with the conclusion of this reasoning. It cannot positively prove or demonstrate the existence of God through iron-clad logic. But it conforms to Ockham's rule and the principle of sufficient reason. We are justified in positing or asserting the real existence of unobserved or unobservable entities if their real existence is indispensable for the explanation of observable phenomena. Under the same principle by which we admit evidence into a court of law, this establishes the existence of a Higher Intelligence as true beyond a reasonable doubt."

Leben's intended response was nipped in the bud as both their pagers went off at once. A quick glance at the displayed messages had both of them up in seconds and running straight for the trauma bay. In the twinkling of the eye their priorities had shifted 180 degrees. They were no longer thinkers or dreamers. They were soldiers once again, re-entering the frontlines of a war with stakes as high as any battlefield.

"_TRAUMA TEAM TO THE TRAUMA BAY – LEVEL ONE INCOMING. ETA SEVEN MINUTES." _The triage nurse's voice echoed over the Emergency Facility's PA system as all the present personnel scrambled to prepare the bay. The exact details of the incoming patient's injuries were still unknown to most of them. But there was no mistaking the meaning of "Level One".

A few seconds less than seven minutes, the bay doors opened to receive two paramedics rapidly wheeling in a gurney. Its occupant, fully immobilized, was a blond-haired Caucasian male who appeared to be in his late twenties. Large, tanned, and muscular, he would have appeared handsome under any other circumstances.

But all that anyone could see at this moment was the large metal rebar that had been driven straight through his skull.

His eyes stared vacantly up toward the ceiling, the only outward sign of life being the occasional blink and twitch of the lids. Blood was slowly dripping from the hole just above his left eye where the rod was protruding. A second look by any observers would have also revealed additional, shortened pieces of metal that had pierced various other places on his body and limbs.

Everyone in the bay not immediately occupied stood in mute transfixion as the patient was wheeled past at the highest speed the paramedics dared to take. All manner of gruesome injuries had passed through the halls of this facility, the only Level 1 Trauma Center in the region. But this was something else entirely. Something beyond reason. A living, breathing human being whose brain had literally been skewered. It was impossible for this man to be alive.

"What's the story?" Emergency physician Dr. Flora Keyes immediately fell into a jog beside the paramedics. Previously occupied with another patient, she had missed the heads up over the radio.

"BP's 90 over 50. Tachycardic. Severe blood loss but breathing on his own. We think he may have a cervical fracture. He was working on a construction site and fell two stories onto a partially built foundation." Paramedic Bob Charnesky spoke rapidly as he and his partner continued to rush the gurney through the halls. "The rebars went straight through him. The fire department had to cut him out with a power saw."

"Page a neurosurgeon – STAT!" One of the nurses obediently went off to follow Keyes' instructions. The rest were already prepping the trauma bay.

Once inside, a team of six – the two paramedics included – hefted the patient off the gurney onto the treatment table in the bay. Dr. Keyes allowed none of her staff to be distracted by the shocking sight of the man's injury, issuing rapid instructions as they did their best to stabilize him. Blood loss was a threat, but metal rods were still preventing a rapid hemorrhage. None of them even wanted to think right now about what would happen when the largest one was removed from his skull. They were still running through the mandatory series of tests when Dr. Ramanujan finally arrived, closely followed by Leben, and White. They were shortly joined by various other physicians specializing in maxillofacial surgery, orthopedics, and anesthesia.

Only rarely did a neurosurgeon receive a "STAT" page from the Emergency Department. Dr. Ramanujan and the two residents accompanying had therefore been expecting the worst upon entering the trauma bay. But none of them had been prepared for the sight that awaited them. Any man in this kind of condition shouldn't have even been conscious. But the patient's eyes were wide open, shifting wildly about the room. Even his lips were moving now, whispering inaudible pleas.

Dr. Ramanujan was the first newcomer to the bay to regain his voice. "The rod won't fit in the machine for a CT scan. We'll have to do an X-ray."

The rest of the gathered surgeons immediately began a consult on the required anesthetization and surgery. After several minutes a rough plan had been formed, subject to refinement when the x-ray results came in. White would be assisting Ramanujan in the craniotomy required to remove the rod in the head. The spinal injuries meant that Leben's skill would be required as well.

A short time later, an entire team of surgeons were on their way to the operating room, faces grim and set. All of them had long since acclimated to the requirements of a profession that left little to no margin for error.

But one haunting fact hung over their heads: sometimes skill was not enough.

The lights of operating room were dimmed to accentuate the glow from the x-ray panel. A team of surgeons, both physicians and residents, stood gathered behind Dr. Ramanujan as he indicated various points on the x-ray. The man on whom they would be operating lay on table a few feet behind them, fully unconscious as a result of an anesthetic breathing tube implanted in his neck.

"We'll be creating the flap here," Dr. Ramanujan placed near the image showing the rod through the patient's skull. "Our bone cut will then be between the entry and exit points." He continued on for a few more minutes, outlining how they would be stopping the inevitable bleeding, deal with the spinal injuries, and keep alive a man who should have been dead hours before. At the end of the short briefing, each member of the team took their appointed positions, their respective role having been established at the very beginning.

Dr. Ramanujan started by tracing a line in blue marker across the patient's shaved scalp, connecting the points at which the rebar entered and exited the skull. A second line was then drawn perpendicular to the first. These indicated the paths of the needed incisions.

A scalpel soon separated several flaps of skin on the scalp, exposing the white surface of the bone. The top portion of the skull was then removed using a powered saw, exposing the dura membrane underneath. This was also incised, exposing the cortical tissue. All the surgeons were now able to clearly see for the first time the full extent of the injury. The brain itself had been completely skewered.

Dr. Ramanujan looked White straight in the eyes. There was no mistaking the serious expression on his face, even hidden beneath the surgical mask. "This is going to be the moment of truth. I want you to slowly pull out the rod while I monitor the sinus area. Be prepared for massive bleeding."

White gave a nod of assent, taking a firm grip on the rebar. Slowly and carefully, he began to pull. The soft tissue of the brain offered little resistance.

Dr. Ramanujan kept his eyes on the exit point, offering occasional words of instruction and encouragement as White continued to extract the rod. There was an air of tension in the room that seemed to be increasing with every second. Finally, there was a collective release as the rebar was finally taken out.

As everyone had been expecting, there was a rapid gush of blood from the holes that the rod had left on either side of the brain. This was quickly staunched with wads of gauze and applied pressure, held in place for approximately twenty minutes. Once satisfied that the bleeding had stopped, the team began the process of re-closing the dura membrane and putting the top of the skull back in place. Their task was far from over. The spine still remained.

But the man had now regained his chance at life.

Dr. White caught a glimpse the man's family a minute or so after he had exited the operating room. Being only a resident and not the attending physician, it wasn't his place to debrief them. That would fall to Dr. Ramanujan. There was an older couple, the husband stricken but stoic while the wife comforted a younger woman who seemed to just be emerging from a hysterical fit of weeping. Most likely a fiancée rather than a sister.

The last thought caused him to avert his eyes. He continued on, allowing Dr. Ramanujan to attend his appointed duty. They would be comforted by the news he brought. Recovery would take days, if not weeks. But the patient had survived the operation and his prospects were bright. As had occurred many times before, a miracle had been wrought.

By all accounts, Lincoln White was a happy man. With all that he had learned, all the skills that he had acquired, the world was open him as it was for almost no one. He had explored heights and depths of the mind, the body, and soul that few had seen within their lifetime. Limits could not contain him.

He did not need to be reminded of the one thing that lay permanently beyond his grasp.


	9. Chapter 9

**California**

**Angeles National Forest**

**October 22, 20_**

_6:47 PST_

The cabin was located deep inside the thickest woods, overshadowed by one of the Angeles Forest's many mountains. There had been no clearly marked path, and the route they had taken towards it had been so tangled and twisted that Jenna knew there was no hope of her ever being able to remember it. Reeves was apparently aware of that fact. He hadn't bothered to blindfold her.

The vehicle that had brought them from Los Angeles had been far too easy to steal. The memory still made her blush in shame. One of the newer models constructed in the aftermath of the occupation, its ignition had not required a set of keys. The souls had no fear of theft. It was a relic of human times. Or so they had believed.

Reeves had proven an expert in the art of stealth, knowing exactly which roads to avoid and how to throw off any potential pursuers. All the while, he maintained a steely calm – evidence of the fact that he had done this a hundred times before. He would have had to in order to remain free this long.

After they had left the city behind, the ever-present sense of danger – felt more keenly by Jenna than by Reeves – had seemed to lift. The hour and a half drive to the Angeles Forest became almost relaxing. It had allowed the return of thoughts that had of necessity been driven into the background. They had even asked each other a few questions to pass the time. Jenna still felt a vague sense of unreality suffusing everything. Mere hours before, this man had been first her quarry then her captor. Now he was a companion.

Reeves for his part displayed a startlingly perceptive familiarity with the ways and nature of her kind. He could name all the major Callings and the roles they served. He even knew the names of several worlds and species the souls had taken. It was such knowledge - coupled with his cosmetic tools - that had allowed him to pass unseen for so long. But there were clear gaps that became obvious upon closer examination. These he was eager to fill.

Their conversation drifted into other areas as well. Things that struck uncomfortably close to home for both of them. Although he had been inclined to put such things in the background, he had finally come out and asked her what her kind's justification had been for taking his world. She had pointed out that by any objective measure they had made it a better place, cataloguing just a portion of the horrors Earth had seen before their arrival. The wars, the cruelty, the hunger, the destruction of nature through wanton greed.

Reeves was silent at first, momentarily weighing her words before he spoke. "I'm just about the last person to come to if you want to hear good things about the human race," he had finally responded. "I chose _my _Calling precisely because of all the evil in the world. I wanted to make a difference. Protect those who were unable to protect themselves –strike fear into those who preyed on the innocent. To make the world as safe as I could for those I loved. What would have otherwise been the best years of my life were spent fighting the very things you deplore about my people."

That response on its own had been enough to silence her. She had already told him about what led her to become a Seeker. The things she had seen on the Fire World. The memory of how the Fire Tasters had consumed the Walking Flowers, who were helpless to resist them. Though a soul, it had hardened her view of the universe. There had been no one to protect the Walking Flowers – and so they had been slaughtered without mercy. She would never allow such a fate to befall her own race.

His motivations were a mirror of her own.

But Reeves wasn't finished. He proceeded to turn each of the points she had made back in upon itself. What he had said in response to the last still remained present in her mind.

"I'm not even going to argue with you about scientific evidence. Let's simply assume for the moment that human activity was and is capable of fundamentally altering a complex life-supporting ecological system that has existed for millennia. Let's even assume that the medium for this is greenhouse gas and other byproducts of industrialization. I'll pose this question to you – where on this world did the most disastrous, destructive, most irreversible damage to the planetary environment take place?"

The question was transparently rhetorical. He didn't even wait for her to respond.

"What happened in the Soviet Union alone was something you had to see to believe. Lake Baikal – the most voluminous freshwater lake in the world – was filled with islands of alkaline sewage; one of them was eighteen miles long and three miles wide. Thousands of acres of land surrounding that lake were so utterly destroyed that they nearly became an extension of the Gobi desert. Excessive diversion nearly destroyed the Aral and Caspian Seas – and that's not even mentioning the contamination from sewage dumping. In the Volga River, oil concentrations were so high that passengers on steamboats had to be forbidden from tossing cigarettes overboard.

"The 'Great Leap Forward' in China devastated millions of acres in the northern Chinese plains, and entire forests became deserts. By the time communism fell in Poland, a third of its population lived in ecological disaster areas. _Ninety-five _percent of all the water in that country was unfit for human consumption, and _Sixty-five _percent had been rendered so toxic it wasn't even fit for industrial use. In some places the chronically ill had to go to underground clinics in _uranium_ mines just to breathe clean air. At least 41 animal species in Poland went extinct.

"You'll find similar stories all across Eastern Europe. And that doesn't even cover places like North Korea - where the entire country was virtually reduced to a barren wasteland and took ten percent of the population down with it.

"I can tell you how it all happened. Those nations were ruled by men whose sheer arrogance was boundless. Visionaries who thought they knew better than all who came before them. That they could dispense with thousands of years of history to reshape the world according to their own preconceived and arbitrary notions. They cast aside such basic facts of human existence as the law of sowing and reaping and thought there would be no consequence. In a way, they were right. Few, if any, of those men themselves paid any price at all for being wrong. But their people paid in blood."

His words still echoed in Jenna's mind as she followed him on towards the place where they would be spending the night – or rather what remained of it. The cabin itself was small and carved from the same wood as the trees that surrounded it. There was no chimney. A wall of thick pine and evergreen was directly in front, obscuring the building's presence to all observers except those who stepped between the trees. None would have found it unless they knew what they were looking for.

Reeves stepped inside ahead of her, pulling open a door which made no sound at all. "It's not much and it's definitely not home. But we'll be safe here for the time being."

Jenna took a moment to look around at the cabin's interior. It was somewhat cramped, consisting of a sparsely furnished living area, a kitchen, and a single bedroom. The walls of the place were completely obscured beneath a mélange of various maps and satellite printouts. He hadn't told her how long he had been here. But if was clear that he had not been idle.

In the center of the living area was a sizeable table, completely bare. A large rectangular safe stood in a vertical position at the far wall. She had seen others like it – they stored only weaponry.

Briefly glancing inside the bedroom, Jenna caught a glimpse of the probably the only object in the building whose purpose was non-utilitarian. Set upon a makeshift mantle beside a large cot was a framed photograph. A group picture, one of the likenesses was clearly that of a much younger, darker Dylan Reeves, clothed in a Marine Corps dress uniform. The other adults standing beside him were a blond, attractive woman and a man whose hair was light brown. In front, wearing grins of playful mischief were three young boys ranging in age from ten to twelve, the two older ones obviously twins.

In the back of her mind, she recalled the brief crack she had witnessed in Reeves' steel-laced demeanor back in Los Angeles. She knew there was a story he had not yet told her.

Reeves sat down on a small couch located beside the safe, switching on a lamp beside it. He indicated another couch located adjacent to the table. "You're welcome to have a seat. I'll take this couch, and you can have the bedroom if you want it. Right now our biggest priority is sleep. I've been up since 5 a.m. yesterday morning and I'm guessing you weren't exactly a late riser yourself. We can work out what we'll do from here once we've had a chance to replenish ourselves. The stimulants you people have may work a lot better than coffee, but even they have their limits."

Though she made no reply, Jenna could not help but agree with him. She could already feel herself struggling to keep her eyes open. Although it could completely re-energize someone deprived of sleep she didn't wish to use the Awake she carried with her anymore than she had too. It wasn't dangerous – none of the Healers' medicines were – but it could drastically alter sleep cycles when used too regularly.

There was still one thing. Her original apprehension towards her newfound companion had been given time to lessen. But caution of a different, more awkward kind still remained. Though she had come to terms with the fact that Reeves was a human, he was also a male. Being inside a human body, she was a woman. And they were now alone and expecting to spend the night together in a small, enclosed space.

She was about to voice a rather embarrassing query about their arrangements, but Reeves had already dropped off into a deep sleep. Sprawled across the limited space of the couch, he hadn't even bothered to remove his kevlar vest. The gun he had taken from her partner was still clasped in his right hand. It was obvious he had slept like this countless times before.

Jenna took a moment to observe him in his sleep, somewhat relieved that the question had been pre-empted in this manner. She saw many details to his face now that she had not been given time to notice before. It was a strong face and still handsome, albeit weathered by years of hardship. In a state of rest, it appeared profoundly peaceful. Even pleasant. As if it belonged to a different man. The one Reeves could have become if his life had taken a different path.

She tore away her eyes, feeling something close to shame. It was late, and she wasn't thinking clearly. The chemical drives of this body were the last kind of distraction she could afford. Especially now.

Jenna deposited herself on the couch Reeves had pointed out to her. The cot would have been nice, but it somehow felt wrong to take it. She allowed herself to drift away into the first real sleep she had experienced in hours. In a somewhat unconscious imitation of her roommate, she did not bother to remove her holstered Glock.

**Arizona**

**Picacho Peak State Park**

**October 22, 20_**

_9:42 MST_

The spot was perfect for their needs. Located in the towering shadow of Picacho Peak and surrounded for miles around by nothing but arid desert. There would be no witnesses. And by the time anyone found the body it would be reduced to nothing by a combination of heat, sand, and scavengers.

Captain Vasily Chernenko stepped out of the SUV's front passenger door, momentarily blinking despite the polarized lenses that shielded his eyes from the sun. From the back, two of his men dragged out the limp, hooded form of their captive. The corner of his lip curled up in a sneer despite himself.

It taken nearly seven hours of interrogation before it finally became clear that the Healer could give them nothing. The only halfway useful piece of information had been the number stored on the Caller ID of his cell phone. He was now nothing more than an annoyance. A useless of mound of flesh to be cast away like the encumbrance it was. Chernenko had been ready to kill him as soon as they were finished with the interrogation. Detweiler had, of course, overruled him as soon as he called in to report. The safe house was located too close to a populated area, he had said. That made an execution far too risky, even with a silenced weapon. The prisoner would have to be taken elsewhere before they disposed of him. Somewhere with no observers.

It still stuck in Chernenko's craw that he was taking orders from an American. Particularly scum like Richard Detweiler. A venal, deskbound coward who had never had the stomach to take another man's life on his own. And still he had the arrogance to order _Osnaz _soldiers about like his own personal servitors.

For now, Chernenko would follow Detweiler's orders, as he followed all orders. But every revolution had its purge. And when the Endeavor was complete, Richard Detweiler would be the first name on his list.

Brandt had been the first to spot the vehicle, but it was Jeb who now observed its occupants. The black SUV had created a small cloud of dust in its wake as it came into view. There had been an immediate spark of activity in the caves, preparing to execute the group's long-established contingency plan just in case the unthinkable happened. The last few months had gone by with no sign of Seekers or threat of discovery. But the ever-present danger had never faded. No one had forgotten Wes's death.

Completely unseen himself, Jeb could make out every single detail of the intruders' appearance and actions as they exited the vehicle. This was courtesy of his "binoculars" as he called it. In reality, he was staring down the scope of a high-powered deer rifle. The gun had been a recent barter purchase from Nate's group, traded for several weeks' supply of medicine (he was not about to part with his old shotgun) – much to the silent disapproval of both Wanda and Doc. But no one had crossed him. Everyone knew they were living in his house.

Aaron, Brandt, Kyle, and several others were gathered beside and behind him at the cave's shadowed entrance, taking turns with a pair of binoculars – real ones. Among them was Melanie's brother Jamie. A year ago, she would have objected virulently to his being placed so close to potential danger. But now 15 going on 16, he had participated in multiple raids and was officially considered an adult member of the community. The group's children were deeper inside the caves, watched over by their female parents as well as Melanie's cousin Sharon and Jeb's sister Maggie. Doc and his assistant Candy were back in the hospital area, gathering essential medicine and tools in case they were forced to make a quick exit. Sunny was helping them.

Through the scope, Jeb could see a large, blond-haired man clothed in black step out of the vehicle, his eyes obscured beneath a pair of polarized sunglasses. Two more men roughly dragged a man from the back who appeared to be a captive, his features hidden beneath a cloth bag that had been secured over his head.

Jeb narrowed the one eye he had looking through the scope. He had seen enough during the last seven years to become intimately familiar with the tactics and patterns of Seekers on the hunt. Prisoner transport was not unheard of. But not like this. Their behavior was far too aggressive.

Too human.

There was a slight murmur in the rest of the group as they caught sight of both the men and their captive. Jeb ignored the whispered snippets of 'What are they doing?' and 'What kind of Seekers are these?'. His scope was now locked on the form of the blond-haired man – clearly the leader – as he motioned to his two comrades.

What happened next prompted a few outright gasps. The two men forcefully flung their prisoner to the ground. The man landed face-down in a limp, helpless sprawl, the sunlight glinting off of the pair of handcuffs that bound his arms behind him. Jeb alone among the group maintained his silence, tightening his grip on the rifle as he continued to follow the movements of the leader through the scope. The man was marching straight towards the prisoner with short, angry strides, one hand reaching inside his coat…

There was no mistaking their purpose in bringing him here. Here, on this world and in this body, he would die the final death. Fords Deep Waters was barely aware of any pain at all as they flung his broken body to the ground. As a Healer, he was intimately aware of precisely the degree and type of physical toll their beatings had taken. There were compound fractures in both arms and legs. Several ribs had been shattered. His fingers, once the delicate appendages of surgeon, were now swollen masses vainly cushioning the remains of the bones inside them.

The passage of time had ceased from any meaning. He could barely remember the questions they had asked him or even the answers he had given. There was only the pain. Pain suffusing everything. The very pain that his mind, finally retreating in upon itself, could no longer absorb.

He could hear footsteps coming towards him. They stopped. There was a brief rustling of cloth. Then the unmistakable 'click' of a round being chambered in a gun.

Fords would have closed his eyes in preparation had they not already been swollen shut. The end had come.

The early morning silence was pierced by the crack of a gunshot.

And Captain Chernenko's lifeless body dropped to the ground, a stream of blood flowing from the hole in his forehead. The silenced MP-443 Grach in his hand clattered to the ground beside him – the safety still in place. He would never fire it again.

Two more shots – less than second apart - cut down each of his companions as they were frantically attempting to draw their own weapons. They died without having ever seen their killer. Neither of them received any more mercy in death than they had given in life.

"JEB! Have you lost your mind?!" Brandt's was the sole protest breaking the stunned silence of the group. It was immediately cut off as Jeb turned to face them all. His eyes were hardened with a cold anger few of them had ever seen.

"The only man allowed to execute anyone on my property is me." The flat tone in his voice was final. Everyone knew better than to argue. "Brandt, you stay here and keep a lookout. Kyle, go tell Doc to get his stuff ready. The rest of you, come with me."

Jeb rose up from his stomach-prone position and started off from the entrance, the gun cradled in his arm. Those behind him obediently followed.

Upon hearing the first shot, Fords had been certain he was dead. That he had heard the last sound he would ever hear and entered an everlasting nothingness. Then, impossibly, two more had followed, cutting short two panicked shouts.

Several full seconds elapsed before his exhausted mind began to process the fact that he was still alive.

He remained prone in the same position for several minutes, hardly daring to breathe. How could this be? How had he survived?

At the edge of his hearing, he suddenly picked up the tell-tale sound of footfalls making their way across a loose, sandy terrain interspersed with rocks. A latent terror began to rise back to the surface as he sensed them getting closer. He could now feel the shadow of a tall, human shape fall across his body, blocking out the sun. Fords made no sound at all.

Standing over the hooded prisoner's body, Jeb could now see that he was dressed in a pair of blue-green short-sleeved hospital scrubs. Perhaps pristine at one time, his apparel was now marred with stains of blood and grime. The man lay in the same face-down position in which he had hit the ground, both hands (the fingers grossly swollen) still handcuffed behind his back. What he could see of the man's exposed flesh was a mess of bruises and dried blood. There was little sign of life save for the shallow rise and fall of his back – the diaphragm, blocked at the chest, expanding in the opposite direction.

Jeb simply stared at the man's form for several seconds, nursing a mixture of pity and burning anger. He recognized the signs of torture. Whoever this man's captors were, they had brought him to the very brink of death. The man had been beaten again and again, until his body was nearly shattered.

He briefly glanced backwards toward the bodies of the men he had killed mere minutes before. It didn't matter who or what they were – they had already shown him that. For them he felt no pity whatsoever.

Extending the barrel of his rifle, he slipped it beneath the edge of the hood covering the man's head, lifting it up to expose the back of the neck. An uneasy murmur sounded behind him as the rest of the group saw the pink line of an insertion scar. Jeb himself simply raised a single eyebrow. The scar in and of itself was telling but it proved nothing. Virtually every adult in the caves (himself included) had been marked with one just like it for when they went out on raids. His suspicions would need stronger confirmation.

Setting aside his rifle, Jeb knelt down next to the body, physically lifting it up onto the side. The man finally gave his first audible sign of life, groaning weakly in pain. Supporting him with his left hand, Jeb reached the other out to pull off the hood.

What he saw nearly took his breath away. If he had seen an image of this man in normal health, he was sure he wouldn't have recognized him. The face was blackened with innumerable contusions, and blood still streamed from both nostrils as well as multiple cuts and wounds about the head. Both eyes had been sealed completely closed by grotesque swelling that could also be seen around the mouth and jaw. The nose had been crushed. Hair and a beard that may have once been red were now stained a dirty brown from dried blood.

The others could clearly see all that he did. They had gone completely silent.

Putting aside his revulsion at the man's condition, Jeb drew up one of his knees against the chest to take the place of his hand. He then reached his right hand into the leg pocket of his cargo pants, producing a small penlight which he immediately switched on. With the left, he pried open one of the man's swollen eyelids.

The second the light hit the sclera, it confirmed everything. The pupil and iris were immediately obscured by a luminous reflection that covered the entire eye, dancing off of Jeb's own forehead.

A soul.

Jeb took a second look at the man's apparel.

And a Healer.

A low murmuring arose again from the rest of the group, but Jeb ignored them. After gently lowering the man back onto his stomach, he stood up and made his way over to one of the men he had shot. The blond one who had first drawn his weapon. Repeating what he had done with the captive, he knelt down and lifted one of the man's eyelids.

This time, the penlight produced no reflection.

There were several seconds of stunned silence from the rest of the group. It was Jamie who broke it this time.

"He's human!"

Jeb rose from the body, snapping off the penlight. His face and voice were devoid of all expression. "So he is."

"And _you _just _shot_ him!" Aaron stepped forward, his face a mask of outrage. "Do you know what that means?! You killed one of _us _to save one of _them_!" He jabbed a finger in the direction of the captive Healer, still laying face down.

He had spoken aloud the thoughts of everyone. The presence of not one but two souls living among them had significantly modified what had once been an unadulterated hatred fed by an all-consuming fear. Even where Wanda had not gained friendship she had gained a grudging respect for her usefulness. Aaron himself was among the latter group. But this was too far. The sacrificing of _human _lives for one of their sworn enemies.

Jeb whirled around to face him. This time there was an expression on his face. Aaron abruptly started and even drew back slightly. Jeb almost never displayed outright rage. And for that reason everyone knew his anger was never to be taken lightly.

"Let _me_ tell _you _what it means, Aaron," Jeb spoke in a low, deadly whisper. "It means that I just stopped a double murder. Or are you forgetting what kind of body the parasite is wearing?"

The last statement brought on a renewed silence, bringing old, forgotten thoughts back to the surface. They immediately understood his meaning. The three men Jeb had killed would have destroyed the human host as fully as the alien being inside him. He hadn't taken three human lives just to save a soul. He had potentially saved the life of another human.

Jeb slowly shifted his field of vision along the entire group, making sure to establish eye contact with every single person before they averted their gaze. He wasn't finished.

"If anyone here really cares as much about keeping the human race alive as they say they do, then they should know enough to make distinctions. The fact that we're going extinct doesn't give us any more use for killers. Especially not the kind that go around killing their own along with the enemy."

He kept his eyes fixed on the group as he extended the hand holding his rifle to indicate the Healer's body. "That right there could be someone's father. Their brother. You think they would have thanked these pieces of dirt for destroying any hope at all for getting him back?" He gestured towards the three would-be executioners, their weapons still clutched in dead fingers.

No one argued with him. They couldn't.

Satisfied that he had made his point, Jeb reassumed an air of command. "Kyle, head back to the cave and tell Doc to get ready. Take Brandt with you. And come back with a stretcher. The rest of you help me out with these bodies. We'll take the vehicle back with the others."

Aaron, though subdued, was still not ready to give up his protest.

"Jeb – "

"Shut up, Aaron." Kyle spoke for the first time, his voice piercing the air like a knife. The impromptu speech had struck far closer to home for him then it had for many of the others – Jamie being the sole possible exception. Anyone who had still been wavering towards Aaron's opinion squelched their thoughts immediately. The fact that _Kyle _of all people was taking Jeb's side meant the argument was over.

Far beyond sight of either Jeb or his companions, a lone observer silently recorded every detail and movement of the band of desert dwellers who just gunned down his comrades and stolen their prisoner. Nothing escaped his notice. He watched as one man headed back in the direction of the otherwise hidden entrance to their hideaway, returning several minutes later with another man carrying a stretcher. He saw where they took the vehicle. Watched them carry the bodies into the main entrance along with the dying Healer. All the while, silently counting their numbers, calculating their strengths. Lieutenant Nikolai Koshkin took not a moment to mourn his companions' deaths. He had already begun his vengeance.

Once the last of them had disappeared inside, Koshkin proceeded to memorize every single feature of the surrounding terrain, taking note of the hills, the valleys, the formations. He then departed to the second vehicle he had parked several yards behind him while he kept a lookout for the execution team. He would reproduce a map from memory once he returned to the safe house. Very soon, he would be coming back. And he would not be alone.

By this time, the clan of survivors had returned to the depths of the familiar underground sanctuary that had long since become their home. With them they carried an unknown, uninvited guest to whom they were providing a reluctant mercy. Completely unaware that they had been marked for death.

**California**

**Angeles National Forest**

**October 22, 20_**

_11:15 PST_

"Jared, are you sure you remember where we're going?"

Ian's question voiced aloud what everyone else was thinking. They had arrived in the Angeles Forest nearly an hour before. Since that time they had been wandering in an impossibly twisted route that seemed completely bereft of all direction and logic. Jared alone carried an air of certainty, his eyes focused and determined as he led them deeper inside.

"I remember _exactly_ where we're going. We're nearly there right now. So stop asking." Jared didn't even turn around as he brusquely cut off any further queries. Wanda and Melanie, bringing up the rear, both exchanged a glance. Melanie's faith in Jared was the strongest of anyone in the group, and had been shared to a great degree by Wanda. It still was. But the effect of the long trek was beginning to take its toll on both their levels of trust. Particularly given Jared's tight-lipped refusal to explain anything about the route he was taking them on. He had briefly made reference to a promise he had given his uncle – an oath of secrecy. He could bring others with him to this place, but he could not allow them to find it on their own.

It seemed to all of them that they had been doing nothing for the last hour but wandering about in small circles that gave way to larger ones. Even Melanie was sure that they had passed the same trees and clearings several times before. This couldn't go on much longer.

Abruptly, Jared came to a halt in front of a large row of pine trees packed so close they formed an opaque wall. The rest of them ceased their walking as well, finally daring to hope again that he actually did know where he was taking them.

Jared tentatively reached both arms forward, a motion that indicated that his veneer of grim confidence had not been as complete as it appeared. Parting aside the needle-filled branches of the two trees in front of him, he leaned in slightly, looking at something the rest of them were unable to see.

He remained there for several seconds before drawing back and allowing the branches to fall back into place. When he turned around, his face was still hard, but they could all see the relief.

"It's there. Follow me around these trees."

Completely apart from any training received or skills acquired during his eventful life, Reeves had never been a heavy sleeper. Even from his childhood, dreams had been an alien concept – something about which he heard others talk often but which he himself had never experienced. Yet he still did not fit into the category of a light sleeper. The world he experienced at night was a refreshing sort of black oblivion which he could both enter and leave at will with no lingering fatigue. Whenever he needed rest he simply told his body that it was time to sleep, and everything ceased.

Nor was it training that had inculcated his mind's unique ability to unconsciously distinguish between the various sensory phenomena it absorbed in sleep, selectively deciding which sounds did and did not merit a state of wakefulness. Most of the time, it allowed all sounds to pass unheeded. This time the alarm had been tripped.

He was fully lucid and on his feet in seconds, instinctively chambering a round into the loaded weapon with which he had slept. Already, he was counting the number of intruders outside based on their footfalls. There were four.

Reaching down over the adjacent couch, he pressed a hand over the mouth of his female guest, causing her to awaken with a panicked start. A finger to his lips silenced the scream that was about to issue from her throat. He followed these with a series of silent hand singles, impromptu and contrived, but enough to communicate his meaning. They were not alone.

Reeves allowed her to arise and attend to her own weapon once the understanding became clear in her eyes. Using more signals, he indicated first her, then the bedroom, repeating the motion with himself and the corner wall leading to the living room. She was quick to respond, swiftly making her way into the bedroom and taking up position with her Glock on the wall just inside. Her motions were as silent and fluid as a cat.

Reeves himself followed suite, plastering himself on the living room wall just beside the corner that gave way to the small hallway. Unlike her, he kept his weapon holstered. He had a different tactic in mind tonight.

Although the sun had risen hours before, the area about the cabin was still darkened by the thick covering of trees surrounding it. As usual, Jared made his way forward ahead of the rest, who advanced slowly, cautioned by the darkness. Melanie was the closest to him, followed by Ian and Wanda.

Though he hoped he wouldn't need it, Ian kept one hand at the ready over the Beretta stowed in his belt. The claustrophobic surroundings of this place were not helping his nerves. His true instinct was to fully grasp the weapon and hold it at the ready, but Jared had vetoed that at the very beginning. He made sure to keep Wanda fully shielded behind him.

"HELLO?" There was a collective flinch as Jared's call broke the deafening silence.

"_Howe! Are you losing your mind?_" Ian hissed through his teeth, trying to keep his voice low enough for stealth but loud enough to be heard by its intended recipient. Was he trying to get them all killed?

Jared simply ignored him. Hearing no response, he moved forward and tried the handle on the cabin door. It opened easily with neither resistance nor sound, exposing an unlit interior made even darker by the shadows surrounding it.

Feeling the sense of entrapment himself, Jared advanced cautiously inside, his footfalls making not the slightest sound. Melanie followed him inside, passing by an open bedroom doorway to her left. Her wary eyes shifted in every direction, straining to collect the dim light. Although it was not drawn, she grasped her Beretta with a death grip.

A shadow moved.

Jared didn't even have time to cry out as the large dark form seized his neck in a head lock. It swung around and squatted, flipping him off his feet and onto his back in one swift motion. An arm seized his neck again once he was on the ground, the body leaning backward into his chest and immobilizing his right arm with its left.

"Drop it." The commanding, female voice came out of nowhere, cutting Melanie off as she was frantically bringing up her weapon to bear. A cold, metallic object pressed against the back of her neck. A gun barrel.

Inwardly cursing, Melanie allowed the Beretta in her hand to clatter to the floor. She dared a glimpse behind her. A brown-haired, olive-skinned woman in a navy-black pantsuit stood with one foot forward in a hunched position, leveling a Glock pistol. Melanie recognized the distinctive stance, having seen it used multiple times by law enforcement personnel.

Looking at the woman's face, she suddenly blinked as the realization hit her. She had seen it only hours before. On the television.

Jenna Kirkwood. The missing Seeker.

As if on cue, a stream of light worked its way in from an outside window. It shown directly onto the woman's eyes, which were immediately covered in a reflective glow.

Several steps behind her, Melanie could see Ian - who had been far behind when they first entered -moving forward in an attempt to catch the woman off guard. She quickly averted her eyes, trying not to give him away.

But Kirkwood had already seen the motion out of the corner of her eye.

Her reaction was swift and automatic. Without even turning her head, she swung up her right leg behind her, catching Ian right between the legs. As he was doubling forward , her left elbow shot back to strike him square in the nose. He crumpled to the floor, moaning in pain. The Glock remained where it was, pressed against the back of Melanie's neck.

Everything, from Jared's takedown to Ian's, had occurred within the space of seven seconds. Wanda dared to step through the open doorway and kneel down over Ian, overcoming the terror of what she had just seen take place.

Several feet ahead of them, the black shape over Jared – now clearly a dark-haired man whose identity was obvious– suddenly started, as if seeing his opponent for the first time. His lips parted, uttering a single, disbelieving word. A name.

"Jared?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Air France Flight 9917**

**Washington D.C. Reagan National Airport (DCA) to Johannesburg, South Africa OR Tambo International Airport (JNB)**

**Ten Years Earlier**

**August 27, 20_**

1:09 EST

After almost a week working alongside the man, it had become apparent to Reeves that Ethan Croft was not _quite _the madman he first appeared. In many ways, he was a veritable genius. His approach to the work he did was centered around the creation and sustenance of a primordial chaos in his mind from which ideas and insights could arise spontaneously, unencumbered by preconceived notions. Croft's own analogy to his techniques was the example of military commanders in Ancient Persia. As described by Herodotus, the Persians would form plans and strategies during the night after heavy consumption of wine. In the morning, having regained sobriety, they would revise the plans they had drawn up while drunk, preserving their essence while correcting obvious defects. A crude but effective precursor to brainstorming.

Croft's technique was similar in principle though quite different in practice – no one was about to allow drunkenness in a U.S. government facility. Whenever he encountered a seemingly insoluble question or problem, he would set aside official reports and files for several minutes (or hours if need be) to consume a passage from one (or several) of his various books. Having thus "expanded his outlook" as he put it, he would dutifully pick up his work where he had left off, almost always having found the answer he sought.

It was a haphazard, incontinuous method of analysis. It couldn't possibly work for most people. But Croft wasn't most people. His mind processed information and ideas in completely different ways than the average human being, allowing him to think on multiple planes at once and switch between them at will. With all his foibles and eccentricities, it was still clear why the Agency had chosen him.

It was also exceptionally clear why he had spent almost his entire career in the Red Cell, sequestered firmly away from direct contact with his fellow analysts. Those who were able to keep up with his line of thought were rarely able to suffer his obnoxious sarcasm. Even if he rarely spoke anything more than the truth as he saw it.

Their flight had departed from the Reagan National Airport two hours earlier. During that time, their conversation had been minimal. The only topic of import would have been their assignment, but they were onboard an international flight surrounded by passengers with no security clearance and unknown backgrounds. You never knew what kind of ears could be listening. Open discussion of classified material would not have been conducive to the low profile they wished to maintain.

Croft had predictably buried himself in the sizeable stack of books (mostly novels) he had brought onboard in a carry-on bag. Reeves had spent most of his time studying a travel book on South Africa, familiarizing himself with their destination as best he could without opening the classified assignment file they carried with them. It didn't take him very long before he closed the booklet in boredom. It was little more than a shallow rehash of information he had already practically memorized. In many ways he knew more about the true workings of South Africa than any travel agency ever would – or could.

Almost unwillingly, his eyes shifted to his traveling companion, seated in the window seat next to him, just now cracking open another novel after consuming the previous one cover-to-cover. Reeves caught sight of the title. _The Hunger Games. _

Apparently sensing his colleague's bemused stare, Croft lifted his eyes from the text and raised a single eyebrow. "Is there a problem?"

"What are you – _thirteen_?"

Croft brought up the index finger on his right hand. "Ah, ah, ah, let us not be hasty. One can find very subtle, profound strands of philosophy underlying this book if he cares to look for them."

"It's a children's fantasy."

Croft raised his eyebrow again. "If I dare ask, Mr. Reeves, what is really so fantastical about it? Let's consider for a moment the scenario it presents: an authoritarian government that has forced 90 percent of its population into a collection of fenced-off ghettoes existing in various stages of impoverishment and decay. The people inside are under a regime of forced labor to fulfill quotas dictated to them by the central authority. They also have their basic necessities rationed according to how useful or loyal they prove themselves to that same authority. They have no freedom to travel, initiate enterprises, or keep and use weapons of any kind – even for such innocent purposes as keeping themselves fed. You can hardly say that any of that is the least bit unusual if you know anything about the history of the twentieth century. It reads like an account of life on Soviet collective farms combined with the experience of apartheid.

"There is of course, one element it contains that those real-world histories lack: the remaining 10 percent of the population – virtually the entirety of which appears to exist on the government dole – is kept docile and entertained with annual gladiatorial combats involving contestants barely out of childhood. That is, to be sure, a form of gratuitous cruelty that would have been out of place even among the most blood-thirsty governments of the modern era. But is it really all that implausible? We see child soldiers today all across Africa ,the Middle East, and various other regions of the world. They were also used by all sides during the Yugoslav Wars in the Balkans. Who's to say they would be spared if our society one day became as morally degenerate as Ancient Rome? In a lot of ways, we're more than halfway there already."

Reeves paused for a moment before responding. "Have you always been this cynical?"

"Optimism is cowardice, Mr. Reeves. My own vision of the future is far darker than anything a novelist could ever hope to imagine. But let's not get into that right now."

Croft reached down inside his carry-on bag and produced several more volumes which he placed on the seat tray in front of Reeves. "If you're getting bored, feel free to help yourself. We've got nothing but time right now. I pegged you as more of a nonfiction kind of guy, so I packed some extras.

Reeves glanced down at the unasked-for stack that had been placed in front of him. Richard Preston's _The Hot Zone _stood at the top of a collection of titles that included _The Demon in the Freezer _(also by Richard Preston), _Biohazard _by Ken Alibek, _Virus Hunter _by C.J. Peters, and _Rising Plague _by Brad Spellberg. The common underlying theme was obvious. Croft was apparently paying a bit more mind to their assignment than he had previously let on.

It still ate at Reeves inside that he had been taken off the Rostam case. But he received a degree of comfort from the fact that the Cell's latest (or in his case, first) assignment was not as irrelevant as it could have otherwise been. It concerned a recently confirmed outbreak of septicemic plague near Johannesburg. While still an unusual (and, in his mind, somewhat misplaced) focus of the Agency's resources, there was one factor that set this particular case apart from the numerous outbreaks that had visited that region in the past.

More than half of the identified patients had received antibiotic treatment within 24 hours of infection. And still they had died.

The rest of the Directorate's analysts (ensconced within their vaults back at Langley) had already issued their reports on the outbreak, the main conclusions of which were largely identical to those of the Centers for Disease Control and the World Health Organization. A new, antibiotic-resistant strain of plague had arisen through natural mutation. The difference of opinion came in the estimates of how widespread the outbreak could potentially become, how it could be controlled, and its geopolitical repercussions. Even with the passing of the years, the 2009 influenza scare was still fresh in the mind of nearly every policymaker. Strains were constantly adapting, evolving at a pace that almost always left any effort to contain them far behind. And with the interconnectedness of globalization, they had the potential to spread faster and farther than had ever been possible in previous eras. The nightmare scenario of a global pandemic wiping out millions in a matter of weeks was one that waxed and waned with the times but never ceased to haunt the modern world.

At the same time, analyzing an epidemic would have been considered a bizarre use of the Agency's limited resources just a few years ago. Particularly when bioterrorism was not being considered and the CDC and WHO already had their own personnel on the case. Yet another symptom of the malaisical confusion of priorities that was consuming decision-making circles in both Washington and Langley.

Reeves was grateful, however, that the assignment had inadvertently given him an excuse for a partial return to the field. Though Croft was hardly a charismatic personality, he had an instinctive talent for negotiation – although in his case it almost always bordered on blackmail. He also had a sharp eye for legal loopholes of all sorts and could always read between the lines of his superiors' orders, giving them a meaning that their originators had hardly intended but inevitably found themselves unable to dispute. That was how he was able to get the tickets for the flight currently taking them to South Africa, selling the trip as a necessary condition of the Cell's ability to analyze the plague outbreak from an alternate perspective – in this case on the front lines. Not to say he hadn't gone behind a few backs and twisted a few proverbial arms in the process.

Taking his companion's suggestion, Reeves made his choice from the pile. Ken Alibek's _Biohazard. _Something he had read several times before. He flipped the book open at random, starting at a passage practically in the middle.

_I have lost all sense of smell, and have the broadest range of allergies of anyone I know. I can't eat butter, cheese, eggs, mayonnaise, sausages, chocolate, or candy. I swallow two or three pills of anti-allergy medicine a day – more on bad days, when my sinuses start to drain. Every morning, I rub ointment over my face, neck, and hands to give my skin the natural lubricants it has lost. The countless vaccinations I received against anthrax, plague, and tularemia weakened my resistance to disease and probably shortened my life. A bioweapons lab leaves its mark on a person forever._

Reeves read on haphazardly, flipping from spot to spot in the book in no particular order as he re-absorbed the testimony of the former Deputy Director of _Biopreparat_ – known as Kanatzhan Alibekov before his 1992 defection to the United States. The memoir was a trove of material. It contained Alibekov's own brush with death when he inadvertently stepped into a small puddle of liquid tularemia – enough to infect the entire population of the Soviet Union. The accidental release of anthrax spores into the civilian community surrounding the military plant at Sverdlovsk. The use of plasmids to increase virulence and antibiotic resistance in bacteria. The resurrection of previously eradicated pathogens like smallpox for use as weapons of war. The creation of deadly new hybrid strains with names like "Ebolapox" and "Veepox", capable of infecting hundreds – even thousands – within days of being released.

The most ominous portion of the book came towards the end. Alibekov detailed how the Russians had taught courses in genetic engineering and molecular biology for scientists from places like Cuba, Libya, Iran, Iraq, and a host of other countries around the world – almost all of them in the grip of ruthless tyrants and delusional maniacs.

Anyone who knew anything about Alibekov's work had to realize how childish Cold War Era fears of a nuclear Armageddon had truly been. There was another, just as deadly threat lurking below the surface that few had cared to notice. An apocalypse brought on by mankind's mastery not of the atom but of the germ.

Reeves finally closed the book after approximately two hours of re-reading. There was enough darkness on his mind right now to last him for days, and he was going to need all the sleep he could get once they landed in Johannesburg. He allowed his mind to drift in other directions, thoughts of work giving place to more personal reflections.

He remembered the call he had made several days previously to Jennifer's family. Though his work came with an unforgiving schedule, Reeves had always made the effort to stay in touch, both before and after his sister's death. Even a five-minute telephone conversation was worth it.

He had listened to the cellphone's ringtone for several seconds before a deep, male voice answered on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Ken, this Dil. How're the kids doing?"

Reeves had known very well that the youngest of the 'kids' he referred to was now twenty years old. The work he did for the Agency gave him a brutally realistic outlook on life, and he was not given to sentimentality. But memories did mean something to him, particularly with Jennifer gone. Continuing to refer to his three nephews as 'the kids' remained his sole concession to emotionalism. In any area of his life.

"Dil! Nice to be hearing from you. It's been a while."

Kenneth Howe, his sister's widower, had then proceeded on a chatty, prideful overview of his three sons' various accomplishments over the recent months. Most of it was simple things, with a few unusually interesting items such as their recent completion of a hand-built vacation home out in the Arizona desert (Kenneth, as usual, hadn't bothered to see who actually owned the property they were building on). Gordon was back from the Marines after completing his tour of duty in Okinawa. James had also returned from the National Guard. Jared continued to do well in the university he'd entered on a football scholarship.

It was an exaggeration to say that Reeves and his brother-in-law had ever been particularly close. Since his entry into the Agency, Kenneth Howe had always regarded him with a somewhat suspicious air, never buying the cover story that Reeves had left the Marines to become a diplomat. But he had known better than to ask the wrong questions. There had been an understanding between them from the beginning. A mutual respect for the other's integrity that had even strengthened since Jennifer's death.

It hadn't been that way in the first few weeks after she died. Fueled by alcohol, Kenneth had lashed out, hating the world and blaming everyone. Cursing the doctors and the system that had allowed his wife to die so needlessly. His brother-in-law – with his mysterious government job about which he never spoke -became just another face of the shadowy, unfeeling Establishment that played games with the lives of ordinary people.

But gradually, the grief and rage had given way to new realities. Kenneth had three sons who needed him then more than ever. And Dylan had joined his wife's parents in helping him fill the void that Jennifer had left behind in his family, becoming a godfather to his children. Standing in as an anchor of stability during those dark days when their father's mourning had almost consumed him.

Kenneth had eventually taken hold of his life once more, ashamed that he let himself slip to that depth. The scars of the experience never truly healed. His view of life and the world had been permanently changed, in many ways putting up yet another rift between him and his in-laws. But he had never forgotten what they did for him during that time when he wished for nothing more than to join his wife in death. It was the closest thing to a bond that Reeves had ever had with the man.

Though cared deeply for each of his nephews, it was Jared's current prospects that interested him the most. Born a year after the twins, the boy had been profoundly open to his uncle's tutelage. Reeves remembered fondly their various excursions together in the wilderness. Like everyone in both his parents' families, the boy lived for the outdoors, regarding life in the midst of civilization as one long, extended chore.

In many ways, Reeves had become closer to his youngest nephew than he had to any other human being, his sister excepted. Jared was like the son he had never had.

And never would.

He glanced down again at the volumes in front of him. The brief excursion through his memories had been a renewal of his purpose. The faces of his sister's family stood out as clearly in his mind as the titles he saw before his eyes. They were set side by side with the images of suffering, pain, and death that lay between the pages.

For the briefest of moments he allowed himself to imagine the unthinkable. The thought was quickly suppressed, a firm, angry resolve taking its place.

The darkness would never touch them. Not while he drew breath.

**Johannesburg, South Africa**

**Soweto suburb **

**Ten Years Earlier**

**August 28, 20_**

8:07 EET

The arrival in Johannesburg had followed a quick, orderly sequence of events. Reeves and Croft had been met at the airport by an NCS detachment dispatched from the American embassy, to which they were quickly transported in an unmarked vehicle. There had been an extended briefing by the Agency's Johannesburg station chief, who, while maintaining a professional air, was obviously none too keen on their unexpected intrusion into his domain. They had then been given a few short hours to sleep off the jet lag before embarking to their intended destination.

It was a half hour drive of thirty-two kilometers from the U.S. embassy on Pritchard Street to the edge of Soweto. Its name an English syllabic abbreviation for "South Western Townships", the area contained approximately 40 percent of Johannesburg's 4 million residents. An estimated 98 percent of its residents were black, in contrast to the mere 73 percent majority in the City as a whole.

Historically impoverished, the end of apartheid was finally beginning to live up to its promise for Soweto. Reeves could remember a time when that short distance of thirty-two kilometers they were currently driving might as well have been a thousand miles. The difference had been stark. In the present days, however, there was clear evidence of a rising prosperity, embodied in newly-established shopping malls, streets crowded with automobiles, and increasingly elegant residential housing.

There was still a distance to travel before Soweto's neighborhoods reached the level of Johannesburg's white-dominated suburbs to the north and east. But the area was a far cry from what it had been under the old regime, which had rigidly controlled its economic activity – virtually outlawing any form of self-employment. With these restrictions lifted, its inhabitants were finally acquiring the skill for enterprise that had been denied to them for decades. It was a heart-warming development for anyone who truly cared about the future of Africa.

There was a sad, cosmic cruelty to this new development that threatened to reverse the area's progress by several years in a matter of weeks.

The streets held a different kind of traffic today. Roadblocks guarded by armed soldiers stood at every other corner. Humvees, jeeps, and armored personnel carriers roamed from point to point. Some of them were parked and open at the back, where army medics were dispensing surgical masks to lines of waiting civilians. Every shop was darkened and locked, complying with the recently ordered quarantine. Every schoolyard was deserted, the children kept home by their frightened parents.

Their vehicle slowed as it came to the military checkpoint in front of the Chris Hani Baragwanath Hospital – headquarters of the field medical station recently erected by Johannesburg's public health authorities. The guard waived them through after verifying the ID of their driver. Reeves instinctively took note of his name tag: Okoro.

Passing through the checkpoint, they entered a sea of white tents and vehicles which had clustered around the hospital campus. Many held a red cross emblazoned across the top. In a few places, Reeves clearly saw UN insignia – one of them denoted the World Health Organization.

A petite, dark-haired woman stepped out of one of the tents and walked toward them as they exited the vehicle that had brought them there. Reeves noted that the tent held the red cross, not the blue globe. She spoke without extending her hand.

"Dr. Kara Schiffer, Public Health Advisor. I'm Dr. Molitor's counterpart. I take it you must be 'Daniel' and 'Tom'."

The veiled sarcasm in her voice was obvious. Reeves, despite himself, could understand her annoyance. A cryptic order from the American embassy received only the day before instructing both her and her boss to make way for a pair of anonymous, uninvited government agents who would now be looking over their shoulders as they attempted to perform one of the most stressful jobs imaginable. As the local detachment from the Centers for Disease Control back in the United States, they already had plenty of difficulties coordinating with the South African authorities and the WHO.

"I'm Daniel. That would be Tom." Croft smoothly motioned over his shoulder in Reeves' direction as he accepted Dr. Schiffer's reluctant greeting. "I can see you're busy and so are we. Please take us to your leader."

The inherent oddness of his phrasing was clearly not lost on Dr. Schiffer, but she expressed it in nothing more than a slightly raised eyebrow. She gave a brief nod and a "follow me" before leading them deeper into the maze of tents.

They had a total of 300 deaths on their hands already and they still had not identified Patient Zero. That fact weighed on Dr. Stephen Molitor's mind as he stared at the pile of reports in front of him with a sort of detached exhaustion.

The fortunate ones had been those that died before any onset of symptoms. The others had suffered indescribable agony as they vomited out their own blood in the midst of a raging fever. The longest any of them had survived was 48 hours.

On the wall above his makeshift "desk" – in reality a commandeered folding table – stood a large map of South Africa and its various provinces as well as their chief cities. It had become a mess of red tacks, each one denoting a confirmed outbreak of septicemic plague. The animated computer model on Molitor's laptop was even more ominous.

The fears of a _potential _pandemic were now irrelevant – the pandemic was already here. The disease was a wildfire, raging out of control.

The bacterium itself behaved unlike any form of plague he had ever seen. They had confirmed it as septicemic plague, yet its method of infection was something he would have expected from pneumonic plague. In its septicemic form, the plague bacterium – _Yersinia pestis_ - could only rarely travel without animal vectors and never without them in its bubonic form. While not the most inherently deadly form of the disease, what made pneumonic plague so dangerous was that it was the most difficult to contain. Like influenza, it could be spread at lightning speed as an airborne aerosol, requiring only a cough or a sneeze from one infected human to spread the disease to dozens more.

But strictly from the standpoint of its effects, the septicemic form was far more devastating. While pneumonic plague confined itself to the respiratory tract, septicemic plague literally poisoned the blood, spreading its infection through the whole of the body and attacking the internal organs. People were known to die within less than 24 hours after infection. Many without ever knowing they were sick.

Molitor could still remember the call he had received in the middle of the night exactly 7 days earlier, when the CDC had dispatched him and Dr. Schiffer to Johannesburg to follow-up on an alert recently issued to the World Health Organization. A recent entrant to the Epidemic Intelligence Service, it was his first such deployment overseas on one of the EIS/PHA management teams the CDC used to investigate both domestic and foreign outbreaks.

He had fully mastered the academic side of his training long ago. He had even been prepared for the long, stressful hours. But it was something else entirely to be tasked with fighting something so monstrous and find that none of your weapons were of any avail.

"Dr. Molitor?"

The familiar voice brought his mind back to the present. Molitor shifted his gaze to the doorway of his makeshift office, where Dr. Schiffer had just entered, accompanied by two male strangers.

"The two embassy personnel we were expecting just arrived." She indicated her companions with a brief nod of her head.

Molitor immediately arose from the folding chair behind his desk. "Welcome to our facility, gentleman. I'm Dr. Stephen Molitor, Epidemic Intelligence Officer. Pardon me if I don't shake your hands."

"Pardon granted, Doctor. We've been here long enough to know what's going around. You can call me Daniel, the man behind me would be Tom."

Out of nowhere, Croft suddenly gave a low whistle as he looked past the doctor to the map on the wall behind him. "Now that's what I call a plague."

Reeves simply closed his eyes and looked away, shutting out the speechless stares of Molitor and his partner. The few days he had spent working alongside Ethan Croft had been more than enough to acquaint him with the man's less-than-appropriate mannerisms. Including his penchant for saying exactly the wrong things at exactly the wrong times. It was as if he _wanted _people to think he was deranged.

Dr. Molitor was the first to regain his composure, clearing his throat with an exaggerated effort.

"The embassy gave me a preliminary overview of what you wanted to see, so I've prepared things as best I could. As you can see for yourself out there, we're a little under-equipped right now for a full tour, but we should be able to give you what you need."

Several hours poring over the case records and a highly controlled tour of the station itself had been enough to drive home the enormity of what they were dealing with. Reeves himself had always had a distaste for hospitals. His stomach was not weak by any means. He had spent years in combat both in the Marines and in the CIA's Special Activities Division. During that time he had seen some of the most horrific, sickening kinds of injury and mutilation imaginable, even offering his own impromptu field treatment.

But a civilian hospital environment was different. Disturbing. Designed to combat things far more insidious than wounds received on the battlefield. Enemies that could not be fought with a soldier's weapons. Things that could destroy even the strongest of men.

The first patients had been carefully isolated from all the others, every effort being made to prevent the infection's spread. But that was changing. The sheer number of cases was quickly overwhelming the station's finite resources. New patients were now placed in open beds compressed in row upon row, the staff moving down between them in breath masks and full HazMat regalia.

It signaled a grim reality. It no longer mattered if the patients infected one another. Death was already a certainty for anyone who with the disease.

Croft's outward demeanor was as stoic and seemingly aloof as Reeve's own. The sole exception was his eyes, which were moving furiously about the room, shifting from place to place. Reeves could recognize the signs by now of the activity in his mind.

"All the patients you see here came in within the last 24 hours," Molitor spoke as he walked, indicating the rows of the dying with his a slight movement of his arm. "So far, no one we've received has last longer than 48. We have all of them on a heavy regimen of tetracyclines, chloramphenicol, and streptomycin. The results of the treatment so far have been disappointing, but it's all we can do at this point. We have a rush order on plague vaccine, which we're distributing as best we can before it spreads further. The wrinkle is that half these people were already inoculated before they came here."

Reeves felt his lips involuntarily tighten, though they were hidden from view with the rest of his face under one of the breath masks the entire group was wearing. He still could not help feeling that all of this was a waste of time. They had come here to analyze the probable impact the outbreak would have on the region's geopolitics. But mapping the specific effects of the disease itself had been entirely Croft's idea. From what he now knew of the man, this was not the first time he had gone outside his assigned sphere.

Thankfully, it was only a few minutes more before the tour was over. All of them took the time to dispose of the protective cloaks they had worn over their clothes and be sprayed down before they returned to the office area. On the way in, they were suddenly joined by a newcomer – a somewhat tall, blue-eyed woman of middle age with hair so blond it was almost white. The white lab coat identified her as part of the station's staff.

"Dr. Claudia Svennson." The blond-haired woman gave a slight nod of her head in place of a handshake. Reeves noted the name and accent, which highly suggested a Scandinavian background. There was unusual serenity in her voice and manner, almost unnatural given her circumstances and surroundings.

"Dr. Svennson arrived here about a week ago from the WHO. She's been helping us coordinate our efforts as part of the Geneva Initiative."

Molitor's tone was professionally courteous. But Reeves could sense an underlying tension in the doctor's bearing toward the woman. As if her presence was an irritant.

Croft, however, seemed to have been seized by a sudden, inexplicable fascination. "Ah, well this _is _a pleasure, Dr. Svennson. I've been following the progress of that project for some time now. I did hear that South Africa was a recent signatory, but I didn't expect to see its implementation up close so soon."

Reeves himself was vaguely familiar with the Initiative. Crafted in Geneva Switzerland by a consortium of international medical organizations (both private and governmental), it had made its way into the U.N. General Assembly just a year or so earlier. Its loftily stated goal was the creation of a global medical infrastructure able to dispatch affordable emergency treatment to every corner of the world, including some of the most impoverished, diseased regions in existence. This was to be done via the establishment of standardized "universal treatment parameters" incorporating the latest, most revolutionary advances in medical technology and procedure – which were also expected to eventually supplant current medical practices in the developed world as well. He had never taken the obviously utopian effort seriously enough to investigate exactly what "universal treatment parameters" entailed.

Svennson, for her part, was obviously pleased by the attention. Reeves had to wonder what her reaction would be if she had a chance to see the other side of Croft's personality. It was Janus-like the way he could transform between the roles of debonair gentleman and eccentric misfit.

"Progress has been substantial but painfully slow in our present circumstances. So many lost." There was a sincere expression of mourning on her face as she closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. "We have still had no success in vaccine development, but there is reason for hope in other avenues. We recently received a notification from Wehrstein – they are already preparing the first shipment of Kalocin. We can expect air delivery within the week."

"Kalocin? I seem to remember that term from one of the books I've read. I think it was by Michael Crichton…

"You are correct, of course. Wehrstein did borrow the term from Crichton's novel after they produced the drug. Its final stage of development was completed only last year. Similar to the entirely fictional substance he described, it functions as a universal antibiotic with the ability to expunge the body of any foreign bacteria."

"So its marketers would have us believe." Dr. Molitor's face remained expressionless as he spoke.

Dr. Svennson looked at her American counterpart with an expression of pity worn by the enlightened in the presence of the ignorant.

"I can assure you, Dr. Molitor, that it has been thoroughly tested. There is no doubt whatsoever as to its effectiveness."

"I presume that is exactly the reason why Wehrstein has placed it under a seven-year patent and will not allow any independent examination."

Molitor seemed to catch himself after that last sentence, as if realizing that he was re-igniting an old argument in a completely inappropriate context. Svennsson seemed to realize it as well, but still offered her own measured response.

"Wehrstein will be distributing the drug under special contract with the World Health Organization until their patent expires. As a newcomer to the pharmaceutical industry, this represents a significant financial risk for them. The patent is a regretful but necessary measure for them to preserve their own viability until they have diversified their range of products. Once it expires, they will be releasing the formula itself to the world medical community. I understand your skepticism, Dr. Molitor, but it would well behoove us all to retain open minds. Our current options are becoming very limited indeed."

She gave a telling glance in the direction of the infirmary area they had just left. Molitor did not respond this time, opting instead to politely excuse both himself and his charges from her presence.

Back inside their vehicle bound for the American embassy, Reeves turned to his partner. There was a somewhat nagging question on his mind.

"You never told me you were so enthusiastic about the Geneva Initiative."

Croft gave an uncharacteristic chuckle. "'Enthusiasm' is the wrong word entirely, Mr. Reeves. I derive a very intense, perverse amusement from watching know-nothing idealists attempt in vain to remake the world. The Geneva Initiative is one of the more particularly hilarious jokes in the ongoing Comedy of Errors that is the United Nations."

Reeves looked on in bemusement as Croft abruptly flipped open yet another one of his novels, shutting out both his partner and the rest of the world. He had just realized yet another aspect of this man he had known for only a week.

The tone in his voice had not consisted exclusively of cynicism. There was also a deep, abiding bitterness.

Upon their arrival back the embassy, Reeves and Croft had promptly sequestered themselves within one of several rooms that fulfilled the function of the vaults the CIA provided for its analysts back at Langley. They spent several hours poring over the data they had collected so far. Croft, predictably, dominated the course of the discussion. And as, expected, he continued to take it beyond its assigned boundaries, focusing not on the geopolitical aspects they had originally be sent to examine, but on the nature and source of the infection itself.

"Here's what we know so far," Croft continued a point where he had previously left off, manipulating the touch-screen of his mobile device as he talked. "Here, in South Africa, we have an outbreak of a highly virulent form of septicemic plague completely resistant to all antibiotic treatments and with an approximately 99 percent mortality rate in those it infects. All the confirmed cases indicate the presence of a single mutated strain. There's just one wrinkle: these cases are impossibly scattered. We see them at opposite ends of every single province. Soweto is significant only because it's on the edge of a major metropolis and has the highest concentration of cases in close proximity."

"So what's your point?"

"My point, Mr. Reeves, is that far too few people are dead."

This time it was Reeves himself who was looking at Croft as if he had sprouted horns or announced a recent conversion to the Church of Satan.

"What are you talking about?"

Characteristically, Croft's response was a rictus-like smile. "Thought that would get your attention. Let's now take that a step further." His fingers were working furiously now on the touchscreen. "Just this year, we have also seen another outbreak run its course in Indonesia – this one also plague. Just as in South Africa, we see cases at various, seemingly disconnected points across every single administrative division, all of them involving a single, mutated strain completely resistant to antiobiotics and with a mortality rate of 99 percent. The single highest concentration of cases was found in the Boyolali Regency in Java.

"Working back a year, we also see an outbreak in India involving a new strain of the avian flu. There is no clearly identifiable path of infection, with the cases scattered all across the various provinces with a 99 percent mortality rate. In the Congo, it's the same story, but this time with the Ebola virus. In the Philippines, it's dengue fever. In Madagascar it's anthrax. And just now, in South Africa's neighbor to the north, we're starting to hear reports about a resurgence of the Marburg virus."

Croft's demeanor now seemed almost trance-like, his speech becoming more rapid, his movements more intense.

"We have outbreaks of diseases that are spreading everywhere, that cause death in every single confirmed case of infection, and are completely resistant to any current vaccine or antibiotic treatment. And yet we see that in each country where this is taking place, the number of fatalities fails to reach even one percent of the national population. I say again - how is that possible? The only precedent we have for something so deadly and untreatable was the Black Death in Medieval Europe – and it wiped out one-third of all the people on the continent."

Reeves narrowed his eyes as he began to follow Croft's reasoning. "What exactly is it that you're suggesting?"

"I'm saying that the pandemic we're looking at is far more widespread than anyone right now is ready to acknowledge – but the disease is only emerging in certain people. The rest are asymptomatic carriers."

Daniel's revelation had been unbelievable in the beginning, and it was still unbelievable now as Dr. Molitor stared the evidence right in the face.

Natural immunity was something that was not unheard of even for the most deadly of pathogens, but Molitor had never seen an instance so impossibly widespread. It had never occurred to him that they would find even one human asymptomatic carrier for a plague strain this virulent.

There was no conceivable way they could be dealing with over a million. And yet they were.

To say he had been reluctant at first to follow 'Daniel's' suggestion for the additional tests was an understatement. The laboratory infrastructure they had available was already being overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of confirmed cases coming through their doors. There was virtually nothing to spare for pre-emptive screening. And Daniel himself, lacking any medical credentials whatsoever, was not a man who inspired anyone's confidence.

It was his tall, usually silent partner who had proved the more persuasive, making the case in rational, even tones. Against his better judgment at the time, Molitor had complied.

That one decision had changed everything. The results, collected from five subjects selected almost at random, defied any conventional explanation.

Every single one of them was a walking, breathing, incubation ground for _Yersinia pestis_. It had saturated their bloodstreams. It was in their saliva. They were filling the air with it every time they exhaled.

And they were not dead.

The subjects had quickly been placed in quarantine with intensive observation. They remained there for 12 hours. Twenty-four. Thirty-six. They developed no symptoms at all.

More tests had followed. They were conducted even in areas where they had never seen any cases. Only one of them came back completely negative.

_My God…_

Molitor turned around to the tack-marked board behind him. In his mind's eye, the tacks seemed to multiply –like the pathogen they represented – spreading and spreading until the whole of South Africa had become a vast, solid sea of red.

An ocean of blood.

There was complete and under silence in the room currently housing a mixed company of scientists, physicians, civil servants, and emergency personnel. The gravity underlying the gathering had left no room for small talk or jesting of any kind, and they had all been listening with rapt attention since Molitor had started his introduction, preparing the way for the presentation he would be giving now.

"What we're basically seeing is this," Molitor began, making sure he had looked everyone in the eye. "The bacterium undergoes a change each time it is transmitted from one host to another. But the nature of this change differs depending on the host. In a person with the correct genetic profile, it takes on the disease-causing form that almost always results in death and which we are all seeing firsthand."

He paused a moment to take a sip from a glass of water. "In a person with a different, more common genetic profile, however, something else happens to the bacterium. Different sections of its DNA are selectively activated and deactivated, virtually transforming it into a completely different strain. In this form, it lies dormant inside the host, causing no symptoms whatsoever. The effect appears to be similar to that of _Yersinia pseudotuberculosis_, which has a DNA structure virtually identical to _Yersinia pestis _but has very different genetic expression – meaning that it causes few to none of the life-threatening symptoms associated with plague."

The projected image changed behind him, and he turned to indicate the new diagram with a laser pointer. "Once the asymptomatic host transmits the strain to someone genetically vulnerable, however, it immediate resumes its disease-causing form, effectively 'resetting' its genetic expression. Death usually follows quickly for the symptomatic host. In the time between infection and death, they are still able to act as carriers of the strain to new hosts, whether symptomatic or asymptomatic. This, in itself, would make it completely different from any other strain of plague we have ever seen – or almost any other pathogen. But that's only the first of its unusual properties."

The image shifted again, displaying a new diagram. Molitor continued, his laser pointer dancing about the various points of the slide as he spoke. "The second is something for which there is precedent in nature, but which we have never seen in plague or any other form of infectious disease. The strain appears to possess a highly unusual life cycle directly linked to the manner in which it changes form with each transmission to a new host. In symptomatic hosts, it can only be transmitted a certain number of times, after which it undergoes a sort of pre-programmed death. The introduction of an asymptomatic host in the chain of transmission can temporarily interrupt this cycle, but once the strain enters a symptomatic host, it will resume where it left off."

Molitor momentarily left off the presentation to respond to a raised hand in the audience. He recognized the man it belonged to - a significant functionary in the South African Department of Health.

"With all due respect, Dr. Molitor, how is this possible? No form of naturally occurring bacterium exhibits this behavior, even account for mutation. Are we to believe that _Yersinia pestis _is suddenly undergoing a multi-million year evolutionary leap right before our eyes?"

"I expect none of you to believe any such thing, Doctor. You are quite correct – none of what I have just described to you is possible through natural mutation. But, theoretically, it is possible through _engineering_."

He allowed the significance of that last word several seconds to sink in before he continued.

"Let me relate a seemingly unrelated, but very significant incident that occurred in North Korea back in 2003. Dr. Ri Chae Woo, a high-ranking functionary in that country's biological weapons program suddenly vanished across the Chinese border with his immediate family. His ultimate fate remains unclear, but there are strong signs that he was granted political asylum by one of the West's intelligence agencies in exchange for information on the work he and his team of microbiologists had done in North Korea.

"The nature of that work was independently confirmed by several intelligence agencies including the Mossad, CIA, and MI6: the development of a biological weapon capable of attacking specific genetic structures. A virus or bacteria that only infected certain types of people.

"Imagine now, if you can what could be done with that kind of the weapon in the hands of a rogue state or extremist organization. They would be able to wipe out entire genetic or ethnic groups while leaving their own people unharmed. Or even certain individuals of choice."

He turned back to the diagram projected on the wall, re-memorizing every detail of the monstrosity it portrayed before returning his gaze to his audience. Their attention had not even wavered for a second. His thoughts briefly returned to Daniel and Tom, the two government agents who he imagined even now were contacting their superiors back in Washington.

"The fact of the matter is, gentlemen, I do not believe we are dealing with a natural outbreak at all. We are dealing with bioterrorism."

Svennson ran her hands through her long, blond hair, hanging free after the removal of the pins that had kept in place throughout her workday. She closed her eyes, giving in to exhaustion for a few seconds before fully preparing for the mere six hours of sleep she would be experiencing tonight before arising ahead of the sun.

It had truly pained her to the very core of her being watching those people die. Knowing that she could have saved each one. That she could have made them pure and whole again as they had never been before.

It was such a cruel, hideous _waste_.

Picking up her cell phone, she dialed the number she had memorized months earlier, not risking the danger of putting it in her list of contacts. It rang for several agonizing seconds before she heard the warm, familiar voice on the other end.

"_Healer Winter. What is your need_?"

Winter Sight briefly allowed herself to feel the simple relief of hearing her real name for the first time in many days.

"You have to send them to me _now_, Seeker Night. We have lost far too many already." There was a desperate pleading in her voice.

"_We have spoken of this before_." The admonishment was gentle, but firmly clear. "_We cannot act until we are assured of adequate cover. The council is not prepared to risk a repeat of happened in the last settlement. In this case, the consequences would be far more grave_."

Winter Sight would never forget the event to which he referred. The planet's settlement had proceeded far too quickly. A thousand beings – prematurely aware of the alien presence – had willingly destroyed themselves. The Seekers were still recovering from what had been their greatest failure.

"I understand your caution, Seeker Night. But I implore by my Calling as a Healer. I have witnessed three hundred – _three hundred_ – sentient beings suffer and die in agony before my eyes, knowing that I could have saved each one. If you delay any longer, you will be allowing the deaths of hundreds – even thousands more. You have seen what is taking place. It is not just happening in South Africa. These outbreaks are engulfing every corner of the planet, and the humans cannot stop them. Some of their own may even be _causing _them. Is this what we came for? To claim a world devoid of life?"

"_I deplore this necessity as much as you do, Healer Winter_." The sincerity with which he spoke was genuine. "_But we must also consider the safety of the souls we will be implanting. If the humans become aware of our presence before we have gained a position of strength, we can expect no quarter either for ourselves or the new arrivals. The shipment to Johannesburg cannot take place until we have accounted for all possible eventualities_."

"You could just send me the medicine." She caught herself too late after she had already uttered the sentence.

There was a shocked, extended silence on the other end. Winter Sight closed her eyes in shame, trying to regain her own voice after the unthinkable blunder.

"Forgive me. I didn't mean – "

"_I understand your feelings, Healer Winter_." Night Forest cut her off, still retaining the sympathy in his voice. "_But you know that is impossible. The healings and the insertions have to take place simultaneously. We established that at the very beginning_."

Winter Sight nodded dutifully even though she knew he could not see it. "Yes. I have always known that, Seeker Night. I forgot myself for just a moment. This body's emotions –"

"- _are difficult to be borne for any of us who have not experienced them before_." He finished the thought for her.

She let out a deep, trembling breath. "Please. Try to hurry."

There was a momentary silence on the other line before he responded. _"I will put in a word for you in the council, Healer Winter. But that is all I can promise."_

Winter Sight closed her eyes and nodded. "That will be enough."


	11. Chapter 11

**South Dakota**

**Black Hills National Forest**

**October 23, 20_**

_6:00 MST_

Almost four hours had passed since they found him.

From the time they had brought him into their haven, the mysterious man had been in a sustained state of unconsciousness punctuated by occasional episodes of waking delirium. This was accompanied by an inexplicable roaring fever that kept returning despite their best attempts to keep it under control. That was disturbing. They medicine they used had always worked miracles before.

But what they had found when they removed the cowl obscuring his face was nothing less than horrifying.

Nate had drawn back in shocked revulsion, gripped by a mixture of pity and nausea. The man's face was… gone. What may have once been healthy, pigmented skin was now a grotesque, twisted mass of scar tissue. The lips were swollen, balloon-like, held apart over the teeth by the melted flesh of the cheeks. The scalp was naked of both hair and eyebrows. A pair of pinprick-sized holes – one of each side of the head – marked the spots where there had once been ears.

Nate instinctively knew what the man's appearance signified. He had seen burn victims before.

Burns Living Flowers had performed a quick appraisal of the man's condition before administering the necessary treatments. He grimly reported that it was far too late to do anything about the scarring. The initial burn had likely taken place long ago and the tissue had formed and hardened over the course of years. It was a negligible cosmetic concern to the rest of them – they had been living at the edge of survival for as long as any of them could remember. But Burns' priorities were still adjusting.

The more immediate danger was the fever. Burns had only needed to measure it by touch alone, before promptly administering the Cool. They had never seen him give one person so many doses at once. All of them felt a collective chill when they saw the fearful confusion in their resident Healer's reflective eyes at the fever's return.

As the hours passed, most of them had given in to necessity and returned to their quarters for much-needed sleep, leaving Burns to maintain the vigil over his patient. It was Nate who returned before the sun to check on the status of their new guest.

"Any change?"

Burns raised weary, black-rimmed eyes that now looked as human as Nate's own in the dim, indirect light. His ginger red hair, usually neat and immaculate, was a matted tangle, matching the state of his normally clean-shaven face. If he had experienced any sleep during the last four hours, the amount had been little.

"He woke up twice, screamed incoherently both times, and dropped back off. Every once in a while he's been mumbling in his sleep. Nothing he's said so far makes any sense."

"Any improvement in the fever?"

Burns turned away from Nate to regard the emptied canisters atop his worktable. He stared at them with an expression approaching betrayal. "It keeps coming back every half hour or so, even when the Cool breaks it."

"What about the Heal?"

"Nothing."

The flat finality of the man's tone was enough to make Nate blink twice.

"Nothing?"

"I'm not about to deny facts when they stare me in the face. If it was working, the results would have been obvious long before now. It's same with the Clean. They're not like your medicines. The results are supposed to be instantaneous."

Hearing an impartial confirmation of what he had suspected in the back of his mind for the last few hours was deeply unsettling. Nate took another look at the patient, lying dead to the world beneath the winter blanket draped over his cot. The permanently swollen lips were moving once more, noiseless pronouncements floating upwards from somewhere deep within a disturbed subconscious. Every few seconds, the emaciated form would give weakened jerks and tremors, as if struggling against invisible restraints.

"What happened to him?" Nate whispered the question, voiced as much to himself as to Burns, for second time in the last three hours.

Burns broke his gaze from the canisters and turned back to regard his patient. He spoke with a clinical detachment, steadily cataloguing the results of an hour-long examination.

"The facial scarring is at least several years old and is consistent with third-degree thermal burns. Exactly how and where he got them is something only he can tell us – let alone how he managed to survive them this long without treatment - but they're the least of his problems right now. The hyperpyrexia is the most obvious sign that some more nasty things are going on below the surface. I also see signs of severe malnutrition and dehydration – most likely due to emesis. He shouldn't even have the strength to lift his arm."

Nate raised an eyebrow.

"Less than four hours ago, that guy was running like the Devil was after him. We all saw it. How do you explain that?"

"I don't." Burns' voice was weary and resigned, weighted down with the frustratingly inexplicable dilemma of the last four hours.

"Dad?"

Nate turned to the sound of his son's voice as Evan stepped through the open doorway. Two inches taller than his father's five-foot-eleven, he possessed the same dark brown eyes and hair - though minus the gray at the edges.

"What is it, Son?"

"Thought you might want to see this." Evan proffered a medium-sized object with his right hand. Looking closer, Nate saw that it was a black duffle bag. "Blake and I thought we'd take a quick sweep back the way the guy came last night. We went about 500 yards and we found this. He must have dropped it when he started running. There was some other stuff scattered around, so we picked it all up and put it inside before we brought it back."

Nate looked up sharply. "You went outside without getting my clearance?"

Evan looked briefly taken aback before responding. "It was still dark out, and we made sure to case the area first. There was no one else for miles."

"You mean that you didn't _see _anyone else for miles. I don't want anyone here taking those kinds of risks, and I said as much to you ages ago. And don't even think I'm going swallow that line about not being in the Service anymore."

Evan opened his mouth then immediately closed it. He knew by now from experience that the argument was pointless. A penalty was already forthcoming. He instead unzipped the duffle bag and pulled out a small square of plastic. Even though the image was faded with age, Nate immediately recognized it as an old picture ID.

"We found this on the ground right by the bag. You think it's him?" Evan nodded toward their guest, still murmuring and shifting feverishly in his sleep.

Nate took the ID from his son's hand, momentarily putting aside the reprimand. He recognized it as a type normally used for clip-on badges. The photo it displayed was of a smiling, dark-haired man in his mid-thirties, dressed in a white lab coat. He read the name aloud.

"Dr. Lincoln White."

**California**

**Angeles National Forest**

**October 22, 20_**

_11:27 PST_

"Uncle Dylan." Jared weakly croaked out the words, his chest still compressed under the man's arm. Seeming to realize a grievous error, Reeves jerked back his arm, relieving the pressure. He partially rose and turned toward his partner, still holding Melanie at gunpoint.

"Jenna." There was a swift, downward motion of his arm. Melanie blinked as she felt the gun barrel remove itself from the back of her neck. Slowly and cautiously, she lowered the arms she had raised, risking another glance over her shoulder. Her eyes caught Kirkwood just as she was returning to a standing position after having snatched up the dropped Beretta. The Seeker's eyes and movements were still tight with suspicion as she shoved Melanie's weapon into an outer pocket on her jacket. She proceeded to grip her own weapon again with both hands. It was pointed straight at the floor while she took up a position from which she could observe Melanie to her left and Ian and Wanda to her right.

A few feet away, Reeves abruptly rose and pulled Jared to his feet. The others in the room were speechless with shock as he forcefully embraced the younger man. Jared, seemingly reluctant but unable to resist an inner compulsion, returned the gesture. They held each other in place for several seconds, a slight tremor of their forms indicating suppressed emotion.

Reeves finally released his nephew, stepping back to fully observe him in the direct light.

"Jared, how –"

"You move pretty fast for a dead guy, you know that, Dylan?"

Jared briefly half-smiled in what seemed to be an attempt at humor. But his eyes were dark with a betrayed bitterness.

Reeves' perceptions were sharp. And he immediately adjusted his demeanor – the stoic mask slipping back into place.

"How did you find this place, Jared?" He spoke again tonelessly, ignoring Jared's implied question while he finished his own.

"You showed it to me, Dylan, all those years ago. It's something I never forgot, and I didn't expect you to forget it either. But you seem to have forgotten a lot of things." The venom in Jared's voice was more explicit now.

Off to the side from the rising tension, Wanda was helping Ian to his feet. The dark-haired man rose gingerly, still wincing from the lingering pain. She pulled out a kerchief to help him clean the blood draining from both his nostrils. Jenna regarded both of them warily, her grip tightening around the Glock.

"If you have something you want to say to me, Jared, speak clearly." Reeves spoke as tonelessly as before, but his eyes had noticeably hardened.

"You want me to speak clearly? Fine. I have a few questions of my own for you. But for now let's stick to the most important one: where the h-"

"Watch your language, Jared." Reeves interrupted abruptly, his voice sharp. "I've never tolerated profanity from you or anyone else in my presence, and I'm not about to start now. That's something _you _should remember. If you want to talk to me, I expect you to talk like the grown man you're supposed to be."

Jared's voice faltered in stunned incoherence, the blood draining from his face. To a novice observer, it would have looked like he was terrified. But those who truly knew him could immediately recognize it as a sign of profound, unadulterated rage.

His lips moved wordlessly for several seconds, as if his mind was unable to process or respond to what his ears had just absorbed.

"_Are you out of your MIND!" _The shout tore from his throat in a roar of pent-up anger suddenly released. "_How DARE you! Do have ANY idea what I've gone through?! Dad's dead! Gordon's dead! So is James! You leave us all to die for the past seven years, and now you have the AUDACITY to LECTURE me?!"_

The punch was thrown with the last syllable – on a direct trajectory to his uncle's jaw.

It never reached its target.

Purely by instinct, Reeves eyes had tracked his nephew's fist from the first millisecond it had left his side. It immediately became clear that Jared – in his rage - was making the classic novice's mistake of opening his arm to full extension, leaving no bend in the elbow and therefore no control over his technique.

This blow was not even worth deflecting. Jared's fist was simply stopped dead in its tracks by the iron grip of his uncle's hand. At least a hundred pounds of kinetic force were suddenly absorbed and dissipated in an act of sheer physical strength.

Reeves, unflinching, altered neither his stance nor his expression. His fingers began to close tighter and tighter in a crushing vice around the bundled appendages of his nephew, forcing down the arm.

The color slowly returned to Jared's face. His expression transitioned from anger to stunned astonishment before registering awareness of an unbearable, crippling pain. A man with less endurance would have sunk to his knees. But Jared remained fully erect, still managing a defiant stare into his uncle's eyes even as he gritted his teeth against the crushing pressure on his hand.

The room's other occupants looked on in a stunned silence. The three who knew Jared had never before seen him bested in a trial of force. Jenna's own emotions matched theirs. Though she did not know Jared, she was still fresh from her own studies in physical combat, and as such was intimately aware of the massive disproportion in skill and strength between defender and opponent required for such a feat.

Reeves unyieldingly met his nephew's gaze head on as he spoke again in a slow and purposeful voice. "I taught you better than that, Jared." He indicated the captured fist with a slight nod of his head. "You attacked when you didn't have control. That kind of mistake can get you killed."

Jared's response was to purse his lips tighter around his clenched teeth. A slight tremor and a quickening of his breath indicated his continued struggle against the pain.

Seeming to recognize the burgeoning battle of wills, Reeves continued to increase the pressure of his squeeze for several more seconds before abruptly flinging Jared's arm aside. Unprepared for the sudden throw, Jared was partially spun around and crumbled to the floor. He remained there for a short time, breathing heavily as he gingerly tested the fingers of his right hand.

Reeves allowed his now-chastened nephew to catch his breath before speaking once more. "Now, let's try that again, Jared. What was it you wanted to say to me?"

The younger man's face flashed upwards abruptly, his anger undiminished. But his words this time were spoken with deliberately exaggerated care. "Where. Were. You?"

There was a slow intake of breath and tightening that spread to every corner of Reeve's face. The tremor of emotion was expertly controlled, but still visible. The stoic mask could only hide so much this time.

"We _buried _you, Dylan. In an _urn_." Jared chose to continue before his uncle could respond. His words full of hurt – of accusation. "They told us there wasn't anything left but ashes. That you'd been completely obliterated. We _grieved _for you, Dylan." This time, a clearly visible sheen of moisture began gathering at the edge of his eyes.

Reeves closed his eyes, his lips tightening in what seemed an expression of guilt combined with grief.

"Why?" Jared's last question was little more than a whisper.

Reeves took in a large breath of air and let it out slowly before opening his eyes again, weighing his words.

"I meant to protect you."

Jared slowly and purposefully rose to his feet, his expression incredulous.

"Protect us?" He spoke the words as if they were so unbelievable he needed to test them on his tongue. _Protect _us?!"

His voice suddenly dissolved in a paroxysm of crazed laughter containing not a trace of mirth. He ran both hands through his hair, his eyes wild.

"_Good job!"_ Jared spat the words straight into the older man's face - quite literally.

This time it was Reeves who threw the punch.

Jared was suddenly back to all fours as he gasped and gagged in a vain attempt to regain a trace of the oxygen that had been blasted out of his diaphragm.

Ignoring the sound of his nephew's retching, Reeves bent down until he was at ear level with the younger man. The stoic mask was gone from his face this time, and his body clearly trembled with a mixture of grief and rage.

"I've spent the last few minutes listening to you, Jared, now it's time for you to listen to me." He spoke in an unnervingly calm, clear voice, not even waiting for his nephew to catch his breath.

"You asked me where I was when we lost our family – not just _your _family, but _my _family. My sister's children – my own flesh-and-blood.

"I'll tell you where I was Jared. I was finishing off a man who had already killed one of the closest friends I ever knew and was carrying out a blood contract not only on me but on everyone who could have ever known me. And he almost fulfilled it."

Reeves paused momentarily to let the significance of his words sink in. He spoke again as Jared's breathing steadied.

"The man himself was expendable. The people who sent him after me couldn't have cared less if he died, so long as he took me with him. But if they knew I was still alive, they would have stopped at nothing. They were willing to do anything it took to get to me. And you and your family would have been their first resort."

Jared was able to meet his uncle's eyes once more, his breathing more normalized, albeit labored. Twice-chastened, his eyes were still wary but had lost much of their previous defiance.

Reeves continued on, his voice thickening.

"Do you truly think I was numb to the reality of what I did, Jared? Do you truly think it didn't kill me every single night? Can you imagine what I felt, knowing the grief I was causing all of you?

He leaned in even closer to Jared's ear until the younger man could feel the heat of his breath.

"Do know how unbearable it became, Jared? Six months later, I came looking for you. All of you. I came back to your house, hoping against hope I would find you there alive and could somehow take you all with me. But you know what had happened by that time. And I was too late."

This time his voice audibly cracked at the end, and he took in a long, extended breath to regain his composure.

"Until this very day, I thought you were as dead as you believed I was."

Jared, despite himself, lowered his eyes.

Neither of them noticed another scene taking shape just a few feet away. Jenna was just relaxing from the latest spurt of adrenaline brought on observing the unfolding drama between her erstwhile partner and his nephew. Nevertheless, she had never allowed the three other members of Jared's party to slip outside her line of sight in all the time they had entered the cabin. But hitherto, she had given the higher priority of her attention to Melanie and Ian, one of whom she had disarmed and the other of whom remained fully armed. Wanda, who she had seen carried no weaponry of any kind, offered only a minor threat, if any.

Still, she had been unable to shake the nagging sensation that the blond-haired girl was somehow different from the other three humans she had accompanied. There was something in the bearing, the reactions.

Seeming to sense the scrutiny, Wanda chose that moment to shift her gaze away from Jared and his uncle, meeting the Seeker's eyes head on for the first time. Directly in the light.

As it was if every cell in Jenna's body had frozen. She simply stared with widened, unblinking eyes for several long seconds, her mind paralyzed by cognitive dissonance. The image in front of her was an impossibility. An illusion.

Her mind vainly grasped for denial, pulling up the memory of Reeves' own disguise. But a comparison of two images only solidified the obvious. Reeves' humanity had been obvious from the very beginning and his disguise a startling incongruity. This girl carried all the recognizable aura of her nature - and her appearance merely sealed the truth.

Wanda suddenly paled – the realization of her discovery sinking in. Ian, suddenly aware himself, instinctively moved in front of her.

Jenna, as if in a trance, slowly lowered her gun to her side until it hung limply from her right arm. She didn't even notice Melanie's startled look at the break in her vigil. Almost of their own accord, her feet slowly began stepping closer towards Wanda and her companion, her face a stricken mask of disbelief.

His uneasiness rising, Ian was about to make a reach for his own sidearm, still stuffed in his right pocket. But Wanda, still maintaining Jenna's gaze, stopped his arm with her hand.

Jenna came to a stop barely a foot away. Although it was Ian who stood directly in front of her, she was barely aware of his presence.

"What is your name?" Her voice was almost toneless, as if she were unconscious of the words.

Wanda gently motioned her protector aside, stepping forward so she was face to face with Jenna. She had to look up to make eye contact, the Seeker being taller by at least two inches.

"Wanderer Among the Stars."

Jenna blinked. An awed recognition slowly dawned in her eyes upon hearing the name.

"You're…you're alive."

The faint hint of a smile played at the edge of Wanda's lips despite her obvious trepidation. "Yes."

Jenna seemed to become aware once more of the two humans on whom she had been keeping watch. She physically turned to take in both Ian and Melanie in a single movement. The Seeker realized now that she recognized the taller, raven-girl. She had come across her visage a dozen times while perusing old cold case files between her training classes.

She turned back to Wanda, her eyes resupplied with an incredulous disbelief. "How?"

Wanda bit her lip and studied the cabin's worn floorboards, declining to meet the Seeker's gaze as she gathered her thoughts.

"It's… a very long story."

"Jenna?"

Silent since his last words to his nephew, Reeves had only just noticed that his partner was no longer at her self-appointed post. His curious eyes were now partially fixed upon both her and Wanda. Jared too was now aware of the scene, rising slowly to his feet, albeit with one hand still affixed to his chest.

Jenna turned around to face both of them, motioning towards Wanda with a jerk of her left hand. "She's a _soul_, Dylan." She spoke the words with a forcefulness that indicated her own effort to believe them.

Looking back at Jared, Reeves raised a single eyebrow. "It looks like you have as much to tell me as I have to tell you."

**South Dakota**

**Black Hills National Forest**

**October 23, 20_**

_9:00 MST_

It was back.

Burns' reaction as he jerked awake was far less dramatic than it had been the first time the nightmare had come to him. He now experienced only a slight quickening of the sweat glands and increase in his heart rate. After the first several dozen times, even his breathing was beginning to normalize.

Mercifully enough, the dream did not come to him every night. But when it did, its details never varied.

It had been the same tonight as it had been every night.

He stood there again, as he had a thousand times before in his subconscious. The air was chill. The streets of the city were darkened, empty, illuminated only by the faint light of distant lamps and pulsating yellow traffic lights. Those had spent any number of late nights here could recognize those lights as an indicator that 90 percent of all traffic had ceased until the coming of morning. A thin blanket of late night snow – still falling – lay as far as could be seen.

Three dark figures stood several yards ahead of him, their forms large and menacing. One, the leader, had placed himself at the closest distance. An arrogant, disdainful sneer contorted his face, itself a mélange of tattoos and knife scars framed by a dark fringe of beard.

"I told you this would be too big for you." The man spoke with a guttural, vaguely Slavic accent. Combined with his pale appearance, it made him stand out strangely among his two obviously Hispanic companions.

Burns – not Burns, his _body_ – gripped his right hand tight around an object fastened beneath the large overcoat he wore against the cold. A gun, he realized. His eyes stared at them with an expression of steel resolve he did not feel.

"It's a little late for that." His own voice arose without his leave from deep inside him. It carried an air of harsh command he had never given it. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way. You make the decision."

The sneer widened. The eyes flashed with a glint of sadistic amusement. They looked at something behind him.

"That's already done."

The voice came from behind.

Burns whirled about in a flash, yanking his weapon from his holster.

He wasn't fast enough.

His eyes caught only a glimpse of the muzzle flash before the bullet slammed into his skull.

Then there was nothing.

Instinctively, irrationally, Burns lifted a hand to the place where the bullet had struck the in dream, just above the right eye. There now no trace of the mortal wound that had once disfigured the entire face. Not even a scar. The Healers had seen to that.

But he knew the dream for what it was, and it had once been very real. A memory, though it was not his own. One of many.

The Healer lifted his right hand, silently observing it as the tremor slowly faded. Taking a deep breath to clear his head, he noted the time on the digital clock beside him. He had received approximately two hours of sleep. Barely enough to reach REM. Not much, but something.

Instinctively, he glanced over at the prone form of his patient, still jerking about beneath his blanket in a fitful non-sleep. Given his own experience seconds ago, Burns couldn't help but wonder what tortures the man might be suffering in his mind. How comparable might they be to his own?

Still fatigued, Burns rubbed both temples with his fingers. It was a silent burden that he bore, and one rarely shared. His human body's history was far more complicated than that of most taken for insertion. He had been prepared for that, of course, having come to this world as a Seeker in the beginning. But how prepared could any one of them have been, truly?

Putting aside his own troubled thoughts, he refocused his attention to the living mystery still before him. He fingered the face, tracing the path of the burn scars. The man was somewhat – but _only _somewhat - less of an enigma, now that he had both a name and a title. Lincoln White. _Doctor _Lincoln White. There had to be a significance to it. But what?

The man's suddenly snapped open at the Healer's touch and shot up to take in his face. And the reflection in his eyes.

"NO!" With a strength he should not have had, the man grabbed Burns' hand and thrust it away, drawing backward as if burned – again. In the blink of an eye, he was suddenly upright and affixed to the far wall of the infirmary, foaming at the mouth and shouting deliriously at the top of his lungs. "STAY AWAY! DANGEROUS! UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN!"

The shouting reached beyond the infirmary's walls, bringing a rapid staccato of footsteps in response. Nate came in first, his right hand instinctively placed on the sidearm he carried with him at all times, though he hardly thought he would use it here. Evan and Blake followed behind him, stopping in bewilderment as they took in the scene before them.

Burns stood several feet away from his patient, both his arms raised in a pacifying gesture as he slowly tried to step closer. But the man refused to be calmed. He packed himself ever tighter against the wall in an effort to avoid the Healer's touch. His eyes rolled in their sockets, and his body convulsed in almost epileptic contortions as he continued to shout the single word "UNCLEAN!" over and over again.

Through discretely given hand signals, Nate motioned to Evan and Blake to circle around and try to corner the patient. Burns provided their diversion as they moved in, silent as cats. They went unnoticed by the man until they both grabbed his arms.

"NOOOOOOOOOO! NOBODYTOUCHME!NOBODOYTOUCHME!UNCLEAN!UNCLEAN!" The man thrashed furiously as they tried to hold him still, screaming in a mash of words blending into one another. Nate grabbed an as-yet-unemptied spray canister from the table, this one labeled just for the occasion – SLEEP.

The man immediately became as limp as a rag once the misty spray of alien medicine had entered both his nostrils. Evan and Blake gentled carried him back to his cot. Nate and Burns – the latter somewhat shaken – looked on as they replaced him under the covers and stood back.

The red-haired man knelt down next to the cot, once more, as if seeing the patient's form again for the very first time. The same question he had asked himself several times rose once more to his lips.

"What happened to you?"

The last thing Burns expected was a response to his whispered query. But the man's eyes suddenly snapped open. His head turned to look straight into Burns's face. For the briefest of moments, his gaze seemed no longer unfocused and manic, but cognizant and aware.

The spell was soon broken. The eyes rolled back in the blackened sockets, the lids collapsing back down upon them as the head itself sunk under its own weight.

The man's last words, though seemingly as nonsensical as the rest of the delirious ramblings he had uttered during the last few hours, were nonetheless enough to cast a deep, irrational chill down the former Seeker's spine.

"…sold my soul…"


	12. Chapter 12

**Maple Plain, MN**

**Generis Institute**

**Ten Years Earlier**

**August 28, 20_**

8:07 a.m. CST

Dr. White resisted the nervous urge to run a hand straight through the thick black hair he had carefully combed an hour earlier. He had been sitting alone for upwards of fifteen minutes at the large conference table in a room obviously meant to hold far greater numbers. The extended scale had the effect – perhaps intentional – of emphasizing the singular insignificance of his presence. It was still a mystery to him why he was here.

For the latest of at least a dozen times by now, his mind wandered back to the perplexing series of events that had brought him to this place. There had been a call to his personal number [?] [days/weeks ?] before, taking place fortuitously in one of the rare breaks in his schedule. The caller had introduced himself as one James R. Brainard, contacting him on behalf of his employer at the Generis Institute.

The names of both the man himself and the organization he represented had meant nothing to White at first. But what Brainard told him had aroused at a tentative curiosity. It concerned an apparently highly remunerative position within Generis, which Brainard described as a private research firm operating under a grant from the National Institutes of Health as part of the BRAIN Initiative.

It was the mention of BRAIN that ultimately piqued White's interest. An unwieldy backronym standing for Brain Research through Advancing Innovative Neurotechnologies, it was a collaborative research initiative administered by several scientific entities in the federal government. Its goal had been nothing less than to map the activity of every neuron in the human brain, taking its inspiration from the Human Genome Project.

As one who made a point of always staying abreast of the latest developments in his discipline, White had followed the initiative closely from its official announcement back in April 2013. While he had shared the concerns of many at that time regarding the costliness of its projected $300 million expenditure, the project's ultimate goals had intrigued him as a scientist. There had been no question of his actual participation in the effort, of course, firmly slated even then as now for a career in pediatric neurosurgery.

Nevertheless, though he mentioned as much to Brainard regarding the unlikelihood of his accepting the offer, he had tentatively agreed to a personal interview with the man's employer. Brainard had then surprised him by covering the cost of a plane ticket to Minneapolis, despite his own protestations. The significance of the gesture was not lost on White. Brainard was clearly confident in the outcome of the interview if he was willing to put forth such expenditure. He wondered if that should be cause for interest or for caution on his part.

Upon his arrival in Minneapolis, the ticket was not the only covered expense. While they had allowed him to reserve his own hotel room for the night, a chauffeured company car had met him at the airport. Brainard himself had accompanied the driver, and had also taken upon himself to cover the bill at the hotel, where he himself would spend the night.

The next morning, they had brought him here.

The Generis facility itself, though extensive enough, seemed smaller than he had pictured. Brainard, who still accompanied him in the car, had given an abbreviated history of the location on the way. Considered part of the Maple Plain township, but well outside the town itself, it had begun its life as a launching site for Nike missiles during the Cold War. Going the way of many such installations after that conflict's end, it had then passed into at least one other set of private hands, which had apparently been bought out by its latest owner.

_Beating swords into plowshares…_ White had meditated thoughtfully as they passed through the sole visible security checkpoint at the main gate. There were only two guards present, dressed in leather jackets and quasi-military fatigues and boots, each one's only weapon a single sidearm holstered on the belt.

It occurred to the young doctor for not the first time that day that Brainard had never given a name for the "employer" he was scheduled to meet today. But the sound of an opening door at the far end of the room suddenly brought him back to the present. The person who entered was a tall, dark-haired, somewhat handsome man somewhere in his late thirties. He wore a disarming, friendly smile, but his eyes were a deep almost-black that stared out from the midst of a pale, marble face. Shark-like.

"Dr. White, allow to me to introduce myself," he said, speaking in a cultured voice laced with the hint of a Bostonian accent. He proffered a manicured hand over the table which White arose to accept. "My name is James Allen Locklin. No doubt Mr. Brainard gave you the proper introduction beforehand."

"Very little introduction, actually, though I am pleased to make your acquaintance," White responded politely. "I don't recall that he even mentioned your name."

The smile grew, displaying pearl-white teeth, and a chuckle sounded behind it. "A bit of facetiousness on my part, if you will excuse me. A man in my position learns very early to be discrete about certain things, though I very much doubt that you've heard of me before."

"I will confess I have not."

"A bit refreshing to see my relative anonymity still stands. I'm Deputy Director of the National Security Agency."

White faltered, despite himself, wondering if he had heard the man correctly. He suddenly began inwardly grasping to understand what he could possibly have done to merit the audience of a high-ranking government official. Or what could possibly be going on at Generis that such a man deemed it worth his presence.

Locklin quite obviously sensed his confusion. In fact, he seemed to derive a faint amusement from it.

"I'm sure you have many questions, Dr. White. I cannot promise all answers at once, but I'll provide all the ones I can. If you will bear with me, I would actually like to start with a few of my own for you."

Locklin pulled up a chair at to the table directly across from white, placing a black briefcase on top which he opened to reveal several folders. He removed these and placed them in front of him, leafing through the pages one by one.

"To start off with a few of the preliminaries, Doctor, how much do you know about the Generis Institute?"

"Very little, I confess. I heard of it for the first time when contacted by Mr. Brainard. From what he told me, it's one of several private research firms operating on behalf of the federal government under the BRAIN Initiative." White spoke guardedly, somewhat more apprehensive now.

Locklin responded with another slight smile, apparently intended to put his companion of ease. "That's an accurate description as far as it goes, Doctor, although as you can probably see by this point, there are more aspects to our research here than we would be at liberty to disclose publically."

"That thought has crossed my mind," White responded, feeling even more unnerved about his entire situation. What was he about to get himself involved in?

"We will be coming back to that in due course, Doctor, if by that time you feel ready to sign the requisite non-disclosure forms." White could not help but feel as if the Deputy Director was telling him too much already if the information was as sensitive as he indicated.

"But for now, there are some other things I would like discuss. I am sure you are wondering why I have brought you here today." Locklin briefly looked down as he drew a particularly thick paper bundle out of one of the folders in front of him. He flipped through a few pages, before stopping at one that seemed of particular interest.

"While you were enrolled at Loyola, you wrote a thesis called 'Logos' that ultimately made its way into several peer-reviewed scientific journals. Though I'm sure I'm oversimplifying things significantly, it outlined what was essentially a completely new – and to its critics, highly unorthodox - theoretical framework concerning the nature of human intelligence. One or two of its more sympathetic reviewers labeled it as nothing less than an attempt to redefine the entire field of neuroscience."

Locklin glanced back across the table with his eyes alone, never changing his position. Seemingly satisfied with the perplexed expression on White's face, his eyes returned to the paper tome in his hands.

"In the course of your dissertation, you posit the existence of a universal code underlying all conscious thought, referring by analogy to Professor Noam Chomsky's theory of a universal linguistic grammar underlying all languages. You expand upon this to re-examine the very definition of intelligence itself, positing that all expressions of intelligence would exhibit a common set of characteristics, thereby necessitating a common neurological structure."

White gaped at the man, even more taken aback than when he had revealed his title. Though that thesis was nothing less than the magnum opus of his academic studies, its career had been stillborn almost before it had even begun. Only two or three journals at the very most had deigned to publish it before consigning it to the oblivion accorded to all such ideas found irksome by the self-appointed censors of the medical establishment. That this man not only knew of its existence but was able to display such an intimate command of its basic principles was more than unnerving. It was almost disturbing.

Locklin continued on without pausing. "Another key point you make in your paper, and perhaps the one that kept your dissertation from receiving the consideration you would have wished for, is your assertion that the key distinguishing characteristic of intelligence its independence from causality. Intelligence, as you put it, cannot arise from non-intelligence, and you prove this assertion using examples drawn not so much from neuroscience as from information theory."

The Deputy Director paused to flip a page. "Though I can hardly do the text complete justice by passing over the rest of it in such a manner, you posit various other sub-points in the course of the dissertation, proving them by citations drawn from various disciplines including not only genetics and microbiology, but even quantum physics and, arguably, theology."

Locklin had uttered the entire sentence without even appearing short of breath. White could not help but think that his eloquence seemed almost unnatural.

"The key point that catches my interest in particular, Doctor," Locklin looked him in the eye again for the first time. "Is your theory regarding the relative perfection, as you see it, of the human neural structure, which you argue is not only unusually but _unreasonably_ well-adapted for intelligence. That is, it exhibits a level of complexity that you claim is not attributable to Darwinian natural selection."

Locklin chose that moment to once again look him in the eye. There seemed to be something different in his manner this time. Something strange – almost cold. White was about to respond to what he thought was an implicit invitation to speak, but the man was back to the text before he could open his mouth.

"But I haven't brought you here, Doctor, to reopen a never-ending philosophical debate about the boundaries between science and religion. What truly intrigues me is the way in which you expand upon this secondary proposition in relation to your initial one of a universal code of conscious thought. You hypothetical explore the concept of non-human intelligence, more or less concluding that a life-form's degree of intelligence would be determined by the degree to which it mimicked the human brain."

"That's somewhat of a misconception," White managed to speak for perhaps the first time since Locklin had mentioned his thesis. "You will find further on in the dissertation that I allow for the possibility of intelligent life forms with neural and biological structures composed of completely different materials. Perhaps even alternatives to structures we are familiar with on earth, such as cells and DNA. But those materials, whatever form they may take, would necessarily have to exhibit a common arrangement due to the fact that they must achieve a common result. We see examples of this in nature when it comes to how different species achieve flight. Insects and birds belong to completely different orders and have almost nothing in common genetically, yet all flight-capable life-forms, whether avian or insectoid, possess common structures referred to as 'wings'."

White stopped himself abruptly, realizing he had been on the verge of what could have been an extended tangent. Locklin, no longer speaking for the moment, seemed faintly amused.

"If you will allow to me switch focus for a moment, Doctor," Locklin spoke again. "How much time would you estimate you poured into this thesis?"

The sudden question confused him, but White answered nonetheless. "The basic ideas had been in my mind for a period of several years, and I began doing the research in my spare time during my first year at Stritch. That was about two or three more years. I spent upwards of seven months putting it into its final written form."

"And upon completion of this truly remarkable piece of work into which you poured your heart and soul, what was its ultimate fate?"

The young doctor involuntarily tightened his teeth beneath pursed lips. The sour memory unwillingly resurfaced once more under Locklin's stimuli. He chose not to speak, simply letting his expression confirm what this man, who knew so many other things, undoubtedly already knew before asking the question.

There was a pause. Then Locklin spoke again, his voice gentler. "Tell me, Doctor. How do you envision your future at this time?"

White looked up cautiously from the spot on the table his eyes had been studying. The Deputy Director's questioning was becoming almost intrusive now. He could not help but feel as if he were being manipulated somehow.

"At this time, I've nearly completed my residency at Loyola. I'm planning to pursue a specialty in pediatric neurosurgery. There are a number of openings not only at Loyola but at several other institutions I'm currently looking into. I will say I'm somewhat intrigued by the prospect of a career at Johns Hopkins. It was where the first successful separation took place of twins conjoined at the head."

"And does this prospect… _satisfy_ you?"

White faltered despite himself. He attempted to scrutinize the man's face to derive the intent behind the question.

"It's… what I had always intended to do." He spoke guardedly. "I expect to derive great satisfaction from the knowledge that I've helped people, that I've healed them."

"But do you feel such satisfaction _now_?"

Locklin was probing. Searching for something. "May I ask, Mr. Locklin, what is the purpose behind all these questions?" White spoke somewhat more bluntly than he would have intended. But his patience was beginning to wear.

"You may ask me any question you so desire, Dr. White." Locklin displayed his disarming smile once more. "What I'm merely trying to do at this point is determine how accurately I have assessed your aspirations."

"I'm sure I don't follow."

"It's quite obvious from even a cursory examination of your work, Doctor, what kind of mind you are. You are not content to simply pass on received knowledge. Your entire life and career is testament to this. You couldn't just study the Torah under your grandfather's tutelage – you had to explore its entire bearing on physical reality, and its areas of silence frustrated you. You couldn't just write a thesis on neuroscience – you had to redefine the very nature of neuroscience itself. Your thoughts cannot bear being locked into a fixed set of paradigms nor being fenced about with simplistic dogmas. You must probe the boundaries of every sphere of existence you enter – for to feel truly alive, the world has to seem new to you every day."

White's expression was not unlike that of a man who had just had his innermost thoughts shared with a world of strangers. His face had paled several shades to a near-gray, and his speechless mouth hung open. He felt exposed. Violated. All the while, he tried to grapple with how on earth this man could know such things. Unconsciously, his eyes began to glance superstitiously about the room, searching for invisible microphones, cameras.

"How…how can you know –"

"I can promise you this, Doctor White," Locklin spoke again, ignoring White's query. "This position offers everything and more that you have ever desired from your field."

The Deputy Director produced a new, and comparably smaller, bundle of papers from the briefcase, placing it down in front of White.

"I will offer you more than two choices today, Doctor. In front of you I have placed a series of non-disclosure forms, their instructions self-explanatory. You may choose at this moment whether or not to affix your signature to each one of them. If you choose not do so, you may leave this facility and return to your practice, never to hear from me or from the Institute again. If you choose to sign them, you may also leave this facility and return to your practice, never to hear from me or from the Institute again, albeit bound to a code of silence concerning what you will have seen. Or you can sign them and accept our offer, embarking on a journey of discovery beyond anything you have ever known."

White spent several seconds looking at Locklin, then at the forms, then back again, a blur of conflicting thoughts racing through his mind. His natural instinct was to get up from the table and walk away, having listened to the inborn danger sense that kept people alive. But Locklin's words had penetrated deep. And he could not deny the curiosity that was now burning afresh within him. One that had driven him onward for years.

"Make your choice, Doctor White." Locklin stated calmly, standing over him with his arms folded in front.

White glanced upward at the Director one more time before looking back at the papers in front of him. Slowly, hesitantly, he picked up the pen Locklin had placed down beside them. He held it still in his right hand, momentarily, meditating on some final considerations.

He would be under no obligation to accept the offer upon signing these papers. Locklin had explicitly stated such. But what secret could this place possibly hold that made the Director so confident of his acceptance that he was willing to go so far to attract him?

In the end, it was not the reasoning of his mind, but the yearning of his soul that the decision for him. Whatever secret it was, whatever mystery, he had to see it for himself.

It took him approximately three minutes to affix his signature to the last of the paper sheets.

Locklin smiled broadly, picking up the freshly signed forms and neatly arranging them back into their bundle before replacing them in the briefcase. "You're a wise man, Doctor White."

"You have stated that signing these documents in no way obliges me to accept this position."

"Of course not, Doctor, of course not. But after what you are about to see, you may it very hard to make yourself simply walk away."

"And what is it that I am about to see?"

"It will be far easier to show you, Doctor, if you care to follow me."

Locklin turned and strode toward the door through which he had entered. Understanding the implicit invitation to follow, White got up and took up step behind him. They spent the next several hours going down a dizzying maze of corridors, passing through several magnetically-locked doors that snapped open as Locklin swiped his ID card.

"Until this time, I was only able to tell you half the story of what we do here, Doctor," Locklin said, beginning his explanation as they walked. "From a technical standpoint, Generis is what it says, a civilian research firm operating on a federal grant as part of the BRAIN Initiative.

"But the entire truth is far more complex. The Generis Institute, per se, is in fact, a front for highly classified research being undertaken as a joint project with several government agencies, my own among them." Locklin gave a slight self-directed nod. "Our work with the BRAIN Initiative is more or less a cover story. A way for us to operate in plain site without attracting the sort of undue attention brought about by maximum-security measures."

White's mind wandered back to the comparatively lightly-armed guards he had seen at the entrance, grasping Locklin's meaning immediately.

"Most of the front-line employees operating at this facility are aware of little more than the cover story. Only a few leading scientific teams and other essential personnel know of the true nature of our work. You, I might add, are to be one of that chosen circle."

"I feel honored." White replied dispassionately, noting that Locklin was speaking as if the agreement had already been made.

The last corridor they walked through ended at a final pair of large hermetically sealed doors. Locklin paused at this one to swipe his ID as he had at the previous ones. They parted to reveal a small room with another door at the far end emblazoned with a large biohazard symbol. To the side, stood a row of white-colored Hazmat suits, which they both donned under Locklin's instruction.

"I can assure you Doctor, that we are in no danger," Locklin stated as they suited up. "These are merely to ensure that we don't carry any foreign microbes with us into the laboratory. It's designed for highly sensitive experimentation and must remain sterile at all times."

White nodded his understanding as best he could through the headpiece, which he found uncomfortably large.

Once they had finished, Locklin stepped forward to punch in a coded sequence in a keypad to the right of the door, which opened vertically with a loud _whoosh_. This revealed a small, empty room with yet another door at the far end. White recognized it as a sort of decontamination chamber, and he obediently stepped inside upon Locklin's beckoning. The door through which they had entered came back down, and they both stood still for a period of about thirty seconds as the entire room was bathed in an orange light.

The light's disappearance, accompanied by a small, beeping sound, indicated that the decontamination process was complete. The second door opened slower than the first, gradually rising as if it sought to tantalize.

A series of lights automatically flipped on once the door had retracted upwards, revealing a massive, white room filled with all manner of laboratory equipment and machinery, some of it so exotic it escaped recognition. Screens and monitors bedecked almost every wall. Though empty at the moment, it was clear that this place was normally meant to hold dozens.

All of this would have been enough to take the young doctor's breath away. But there was one sight that stood out above all the others. At the very center of the room, stood a comparatively small, clear tank filled with fluid. It may have seemed innocuous if it were not for what it held.

At first, White thought that he was looking at some kind of sea animal. But he quickly realized that the creature inside that tank, though it could have been mistaken at first glance for a jellyfish, or perhaps an urchin, was like nothing that had ever tread the waters of the Earth. Like a living ribbon, it stretched and rippled within the midst of the clear liquid solution, its thousand tiny limbs grasping and elongating outwards in every direction. All the while its silvery skin shimmered endlessly in an ethereal display of luminescence.

A confused, uncomprehending sense of wonder seized control of Dr. Lincoln White's mind as he turned back towards his guide, struggling to make sense of the sight before his eyes.

"What is that?"

A quiet, knowing smile spread across Locklin's face.

"It's not from this world, Doctor."

White was frozen for what seemed like hours as he earnestly searched the man's face for any sign of deception. Locklin's eyes were enigmatic, calculating, clearly signifying far more than he had told. He had his own intentions, things he had chosen not to reveal. But he was not lying.

He turned back to the being within the tank, mesmerized beyond reason now by its every move as the full significance of Locklin's words dawned in his mind.

Not from this world.

A form of life whose origin lay not on Earth but within the orbit of an impossibly distant star somewhere far across the galaxy.

A being with an existence hitherto completely sundered from all other forms of life that human eyes had seen.

Existential proof of a universe filled with far greater wonders than any had dreamed. A cosmos of untold variety and complexity. A living testament that the Creator of all things had seen fit to show forth His power and glory not just on this world but on countless more unnumbered. What stories might those worlds have to tell? What secrets might they hold in the Great Mystery of Creation?

It both changed and confirmed everything he had ever believed.

He unconsciously clasped and unclasped his hands, regarding them as if noticing his own form for the first time, comparing it to that of the being he saw within the tank. He knew the materials that formed his own biology. A mélange of constantly dividing cells arranged to form muscle fibers, tendons, organs, and bone, the function of each pre-determined by an internal blue-print known as DNA.

Of what substance was this being made? Was it carbon-based, such as all life known on Earth? Or was it silicon, or perhaps some element more alien than anything this world could hold? How had it come here? How long had its journey been?

The burning desire to know, to discover, to learn flared brighter within him at this moment than it had in all the days of his life. The answers to the questions that had driven him for so many years lay so close now within his reach.

He knew now the reasons behind everything that had taken place today. The manner in which he had been brought here, the inexplicably advantageous choices that had been set before him. All of it made sense. Locklin had known along hadn't he? Had known that once he saw the Secret hidden deep within these walls there could be no return for him.

Destiny stared him in the face. And he could not but heed her call.

Dr. Lincoln White, Ph.D/M.D., turned around to look into the face of James Locklin, Deputy Director of the National Security Agency. The man who now held his soul.

"We have a deal."

Locklin's smile grew broader. "Welcome to Project Andromeda, Dr. White."


	13. Chapter 13

**Arizona**

**Picacho Peak State Park**

**October 23, 20_**

_12:07 MST_

The midday sun glinted off the van's white exterior as it returned to its base of origin. The journey it had undertaken for the past several days was now complete. Inside, it carried two more passengers than when it had first embarked.

In the front passenger seat, Reeves leaned forward, squinting in the desert sunlight. Jared had informed them beforehand about the entrance, and it was only with that foreknowledge that he was now able to discern its presence. That was enough to impress him.

Ultimately, against his deep reservations and, arguably, better judgment, Reeves had given in to his nephew's request to accompany his party back to Arizona. Jenna too, was with them, seated with the rest of the group in the far back of the vehicle. They had collectively departed seven hours earlier after allowing for a much-needed period of rest. Jared and his companions had previously driven straight through the night on top of a full day prior to that.

The unexpected discovery of Wanda's true nature had led to extended explanations on both sides. Jared had calmed enough to give him a fairly complete account of what they had all experienced the last few years. Reeves had listened in near-astonishment, despite himself, though it was Jenna who still remained in a state of stunned disbelief as Wanda related her own story. He came away from the account with his calculations significantly revised by its implications. He had always believed that there were other survivors out there like himself, though he had never expected to find them. Jared's description of several self-sufficient underground communities of men, women, and children exceeded even his most optimistic assessments

But it was the second part of the account that truly changed things: the existence of not one, but two souls who had defected to two different groups of human survivors. Not, as in Jenna's case, out of necessity, but of their own free will. The implications were staggering.

There had still been friction, however, when Jared demanded answers about his own activities. He had told them all as much as he could, the same things he had told Jenna. But the questions went back farther than the past seven years. And beyond that time, there were still things of which he could not speak.

Jared would have none of it. "No more _secrets_, Dylan! The world's been over for seven years, and you _still _can't bring yourself to tell anyone the full truth? You effectively lied to our family for ten years before topping it off that faked death of yours!"

"And just what is it you would have liked to know, Jared?" Dylan had rejoined somewhat more harshly than he intended. "How many missiles each of the world's tyrants had targeting your home? How many times our enemies really came to destroying us because of our leaders' self-serving incompetence? Just how little regard your government really had for your safety? I keep my secrets close for a reason Jared: they make targets out of everyone who hears them."

That had silenced Jared sufficiently that they were on polite terms for most of their trip up to this point.

The vehicle slowed to a stop just as two men – both of them armed, emerged out of the shadows. Reeves' trained eyes were the first to spot them, and he instinctively fingered his weapon, the Glock he had taken from Jenna's partner. Though the gun handled well enough, the loss of his Sig Sauer on the _Odyssey _still galled him.

Jared took the keys from the ignition and stepped out of the driver's side. With one hand, he removed the dark glasses he had been wearing. With the other, he clicked on a flashlight which he shined directly into both eyes, ignoring the daylight. Reeves observed that both men relaxed visibly upon seeing the lack of reflection.

"You guys are sure back early." The tall, broad-shouldered one spoke first. "What happened?" There was a tinge of suspicion coloring his voice.

Jared gestured to the van. "Slight change of plans. We picked up two more arrivals."

Reeves took the opportunity to step out of the front passenger door. The two men's increase in tension did not escape him as he stood up to his full height. No longer wearing the windbreaker he had brought with him from California, his holstered pistol was clearly visible. He took note of the weapons each sentry held. They were AR-15s, civilian versions of the military-issued M-16 assault rifle.

Taking the initiative, he decided to introduce himself. "Dylan Reeves."

The tall one shot a questioning glance at Jared, who replied immediately. "I can vouch for him. He's my uncle."

Both of the men blinked almost simultaneously, clearly finding his answer unexpected.

"You never mentioned anything about an _uncle, _Jared." The shorter, darker man spoke up this time.

"It's a long story." Jared's tone indicated that line of conversation was over the moment.

The taller one turned back to look Reeves straight in the eye. His hands never left his weapon. "I'm Brandt. This is Aaron." He gestured toward his partner with a sideways nod of the head. His deliberate omission of last names did not escape Reeves' notice.

"You said you had two, Jared. Where's the other one?" Aaron spoke again, craning his neck in an attempt to peer into the inner part of the van.

Jared visibly tensed, briefly looking over to share a meaningful glance with Reeves. The older man deliberately caressed the handle of his weapon, keeping one eye on Aaron and Brandt.

"Just keep cool. Okay?" Jared raised both hands in a sort of pre-emptive supplication.

Melanie stepped out of the van first in a deliberate effort to put the two men at ease. Jenna emerged a split second later. It took approximately the same amount of time for the two men to notice the reflection in her eyes. And her sidearm.

"What the - !" Brandt sputtered out a curse, whipping his rifle up to firing position. The barrel came to an abrupt stop in Jared's iron grip. Aaron was about to raise his own weapon, but froze in the act at the sight of Reeves' Glock aimed straight at his face.

"She's. With. Us." Jared enunciated each syllable through gritted teeth. His glare was murderous.

"Are you out of your mind?!" Brandt stared at him incredulously. "That's a _Seeker!_"

The circumstances of their first meeting notwithstanding, Melanie instinctively placed herself in front of Jenna.

"I can explain that if you can keep your head on for at least ten seconds." Jared's grip remained unloosened. "She's on the run. Someone set her up, and the parasites think she's one of us."

"What are you babbling about?"

"I don't have time for the full story out here. We're too exposed, and we have supplies to unload. She's been in a vehicle with us for the past seven hours and hasn't tried anything yet. The odds are going to be even less in her favor if we take her inside. If it makes you feel better, we can blindfold her."

Brandt seemed to calm slightly, though his eyes lost none of his darkness as his stared straight at Jenna. The Seeker herself had noticeably paled, though she kept her expression neutral. One hand had instinctively come to rest near her weapon.

"Fine." Brandt finally spat out the word. "But she's not coming in here with a gun. Aaron?" He turned to face his partner with the implied command, then blanched when he saw that Reeves still held the Glock in place.

"No one is disarming her." Reeves spoke the sentence slowly and calmly, but there was no mistaking the threat in his voice. "Unless any of you are so foolish as to go through me."

"Dylan – " Jared opened his mouth in protest.

"Jenna is not here as a prisoner, Jared. Or did you lie you to me?" Reeves cut his nephew off before he could finish. "She has as much right to self-defense as me or any of you. And I'm not about to betray her trust."

"Dylan –"

"What's all this ruckus?!" The unexpected sound of Jeb's voice silenced Jared once more. The bearded man came stalking out through the entrance, carrying his old shotgun this time rather than the deer rifle. His normally cheerful brows were knit together in a displeased scowl, the hardened eyes beneath them moving rapidly as they took in the scene before him. For several seconds there was nothing but silence.

"Well." Jeb spoke again before anyone else could open their mouth. He cocked his head slightly to the side, absorbing the sight of Reeves' gun leveled at Aaron's head, Jared's hand on Brandt's gun, and Melanie standing in front of Jenna. His mood seemed to shift 180 degrees as he cradled his shotgun in the crook of his left arm and stroked his beard thoughtfully with the left, a bemused expression spreading across his face. "This is new."

Jared attempted to speak once more. "Jeb, we can explain –"

"Explain nothing! That woman's a _Seeker_!" Brandt interrupted, jerking his head in Jenna's direction.

At the word 'Seeker' Jeb automatically tightened his grip on the shotgun. His eyes narrowed and seemed to gaze straight through Jenna as he confirmed what Brandt had told him. She returned his gaze, her breath quickening.

"She with us!" Melanie chose that moment to interject. "I know it sounds crazy, but we can explain once we're inside. Look." She snatched a flashlight from her own pocket, flicking it on as she shined it in her eyes. "I'm still me, and we're all still us. No one's trying to pull anything here."

"They're losing their minds –"

"Can it." Jeb cut off Brandt in mid-sentence. He turned to face Reeves, who was standing the closest to him, his gun still leveled at Aaron's face.

"I don't believe we've met." He spoke the words almost casually. "Jebediah Stryder."

Reeves blinked for a moment despite himself, involuntarily taken aback by the older man's strangely relaxed manner. He looked to be in his mid-to-late sixties, with rugged features cloaked in a Santa Claus-like beard. It was clear from his bearing and the way he held his weapon that he had years of experience behind him.

"Dylan Reeves." He responded cautiously with his own name after a few seconds of delay, never removing his weapon from its position.

"My uncle." Jared spoke in clarification.

Jeb raised a single eyebrow. "Well. That _is _new." He took another look at the scene before him, as if absorbing everything anew. "Whatever the story is behind all this, I can tell I'm gonna love it. Aaron, Brandt, help them get the stuff unloaded and come on inside."

"Jeb –"Brandt attempted to protest, but Jeb silenced him with a withering glare.

"My house, my rules, my call. Capisch?"

Brandt closed his mouth without speaking any further. The rifle was reluctantly lowered, Jared releasing his grip on the barrel only now. The rest of the group breathed something very close to a reluctant sigh of relief and immediately set about to comply with Jeb's directive. Reeves removed his gun from his position last of all.

Aaron wiped away that strand of moisture that had been rapidly accumulating on his forehead. For a brief moment, he looked Jenna straight in the eye before averting his gaze and walking around toward the back of the van to assist with the unloading. He muttered something under his breath as he passed her.

"Another one? Now?"

She had to wonder what he meant by that.

The binoculars were slowly lowered from a pair of black, pitiless eyes, long since purged of empathy. Captain Jung Don-Hyun passed them to his companion without removing his gaze from the distant figures he had been observing below the Peak. Lieutenant Grigori Chernenko accepted them without a word, raising them to his own eyes, sky-blue orbs that were utterly cold and predatory. He was a perfect image of the twin brother who had been killed at this place the day before.

The two men were accompanied by only three other operatives, all of them Russian and answering to Chernenko. Though their old patriotisms were now as obsolete as the world they had been a part of, the forms were retained as part of the necessity of discipline. Though he outranked Chernenko, Jung had been a Special Forces officer in the Korean Peoples' Army, and as such could not hope to effectively command Russian troops. KGB operatives least of all.

"The dark one. Look closer." Jung spoke in clipped, accented English, a language they both knew well enough for their present needs. Chernenko complied, focusing his magnified gaze on the figure Jung had indicated. Exactly one second elapsed before recognition dawned.

"Dylan Reeves."

Chernenko spoke the name flatly, with no trace of emotion, though he inwardly felt excited anticipation. They had originally come to this place as observers only. They had, of course, planned to kill all of the cave's occupants eventually. But the deaths of their three comrades notwithstanding, their superiors had not placed a high priority on eliminating a singular, isolated band of survivalists. The resources they had been granted for the task were few.

Reeves' arrival changed everything. No expense at all would be spared now.

The large, blond-haired Russian turned from his binoculars to share a meaningful look with his North Korean counterpart. Jung acknowledged him with a barely perceptible nod before stepping away from the raised outcrop and turning aside, producing an encrypted cell phone from his pocket. He had a very important call to make.

"Jung."

The Russian's voice stopped him as he was about to dial. Jung partially turned to see that Chernenko once again had the binoculars against his eyes. He was staring at a different figure now. One that Koshkin had pointed out to him upon their first arrival.

"Remember one thing. The bearded one. He is mine." The words emerged between his teeth in a snarl of pure malice.

Jung stood without moving for approximately three seconds. His face devoid of any emotion save for a slightly amused curiosity that played around the corner of his eyes. He returned his attention to the phone.

"Understood."

"You guys missed something big yesterday. Had us all getting ready for an evac." Despite his expressed curiosity, Jeb's first words once they entered the cave had not been questions. He spoke as he walked down the corridor leading to the interior of the caves. The rest of them trailed behind him. Reeves and Jenna, unfamiliar with their surroundings, were glancing frequently in every direction, absorbing the environment.

"What happened?" Jared, walking at the head of the group, was the first to respond.

"A vehicle pulled up out under the Peak. We thought it was Seekers at first, so we got everything ready and set up a watch. That's when things got really weird." He temporarily halted his narrative as they rounded a corner.

"There were three men that stepped out of that vehicle. Big, tough military types. They had another guy with them. A prisoner. Cuffed and hooded. They dragged him out and threw him on the ground. They were about to shoot him. Execution style."

There was dead silence behind him. He had everyone's ears now. Including Reeves' and Jenna's. Jeb's words were simple, matter-of-fact and free from embellishment. But they were pregnant with significance. No group of Seekers, whether in appearance or in deed, would have fit the description he had just given.

"Last time I saw anything like that was before the invasion." Jeb voice was quieter now. More sober. "But I wasn't too keen on the idea of someone doing that on my property, so I stopped them. Doc still has the bodies in the infirmary."

The blood drained from Wanda's face as Jeb casually confirmed that he had just killed three men within the past 24 hours. Even the others were slightly taken aback. Reeves and Jenna, who had not known him from before, suddenly stared at him with new eyes.

"What happened to their prisoner?" Melanie spoke up this time.

Jeb nodded in the direction ahead of him. "He's in there too. He was unconscious when we got down there and still hasn't woken up. Doc's been taking care him. He'd been beaten to within an inch of his life." His voice went low at the end in a brief expression of lingering anger.

"The guys that were trying to kill him," Jared spoke slowly, his voice colored with a suspicious confusion. "Were they - ?"

"That was the first thing we checked. They were human. Their prisoner was a soul. A Healer."

Silence reigned once more as they continued their trek through the cavern, everyone grappling with this new piece of information. Jenna, in particular, now understood what Aaron had meant by his passing remark outside the caves.

The passageway was going upwards now and getting brighter. In the distance they could make out the slight hum of multiple human voices. Jeb turned his head partially around as he walked.

"I'm dying to hear what all went on with you guys, but we have some introductions to get through first. And I think Wanda will want to take a look at our new visitor." He gave a slight nod in her direction. "Sunny's been standing by just in case he wakes up. But it'll probably calm his nerves if he sees two others like him instead of just one."

Everyone in the group except Reeves and Jenna understood the additional, unspoken reason behind Jeb's request. While Sunny's time in the caves had helped improve her initial fragileness and sensitivity, he still regarded her as little more than a scared little girl (despite the fact that her body was easily 27 years old). Wanda had always been far more grounded, and would be able to provide better explanations to any newcomer.

They came through the final doorway, stepping out into the final chamber which seemed impossibly vast to the two people among them who had never seen it before. Jenna briefly tried to glimpse the top of the ceiling, only to draw away from the brightness that stung her eyes. The ceiling was lit by some means she could not discern, as if it were a miniature sky.

Reeves had eyes only for what he saw on the ground beneath it. Even with Jared's prior figure of thirty-seven people, the sight within in the chamber still had him almost transfixed. A crowd of just over a dozen people occupied the space, obviously a central gathering area of some sort. Each of them in the midst of various conversations and tasks, though many of them halted these when they noticed the newcomers. He could discern a flicker of apprehension in many of their gazes as they saw two faces they did not recognize, but Jeb's presence cut off any questioning.

He had always known, even from the very beginning, that there had to have been other survivors. But he had always pictured them scattered, isolated, on the brink of death. But these people were very much alive, almost thriving. Shockingly, he could even see a few children among them, tended to by parents of varying ages.

How long had they lived in this place, their self-contained world unseen by all?

Jeb suddenly called out in a loud voice that echoed across the chamber. "Just to let everyone know, we have some visitors for a while. This is Dylan, this is Jenna." He pointed out each one with the barrel of his gun. "He's human. She's a soul. Extended introductions will come later. Any questions?"

Several seconds of dead silence was the only response. Reeves saw that two people, an older, gray-haired woman and a younger redhead, scowled viciously before turning away. The older one had seemed like she was about to say something before thinking better of it. As if she had had the same argument many times before and knew she had no hope of winning it. The previous sound level of the chamber gradually rose again as everyone resumed their previous pursuits, though their conversation seemed more muted than before.

Jeb gave a satisfied nod before stepping off across the chamber to another cavern entrance at the far end. The others followed him. After a short trek, the passage gave way to a somewhat spacious room lit by portable lights affixed near the ceiling. There were several small cots and tables at various places about the space. The tables held several items that Reeves immediately recognized as surgical equipment placed alongside medicinal containers.

There were a total of four people in the room. One, a tall, blond-haired man in a makeshift lab coat, immediately stood up from a desk in the far corner upon their entrance. A dark-haired, smallish woman in hospital scrubs stood beside him. On one of the cots lay a bearded, red-haired man who seemed to be in a state of deep sleep. A younger, brown-haired girl sat on a chair set beside the cot, seemingly maintaining a sort of vigil. The light reflected off her eyes as she looked up at them.

Jeb gave a slight nod in acknowledgment of the blond-haired man as he walked. "How's he doing, Doc?"

"I've had him sedated since he got in, and the Heal took care of most of the injuries. We're pretty much just waiting for him to sleep everything off." Doc turned toward the group with curious eyes once he answered Jeb's query.

Jeb acknowledged his unspoken question with a slight nod in Reeves' and Jenna's direction. "Jared and the others brought us back a couple of visitors. They're gonna be here for a while. This is Dylan. Jared says he's his uncle, which I'm still waiting to hear more about. That's Jenna. She's a soul."

Doc and his female assistant were more than a little taken aback upon hearing that particular piece of news. But any questions they were about to ask were immediately cut off when Melanie suddenly sucked in her breath.

No one had been paying much attention as she had walked up beside Sunny to get a closer look at the occupant of the cot, drawn by a nagging sense of familiarity in the bag of her mind. The gasp had escaped her all at once as full recognition dawned.

"Mel, what's wrong?" Jared was at her side in an instant. She had taken two steps backward. The look on her face was almost an exact mirror image of the one he had worn two nights ago when he saw his uncle's face on the TV.

"I…know who he is." Her voice was ragged. "He was the Healer in Chicago. The one who put Wanda inside me."

Automatically, Jared placed an arm over her shoulder, pulling her closer to him. Melanie herself swayed unsteadily on her feet. A whirlwind of contradictory emotions raged inside her at the sight of this man –who had both saved her life and tried to take it from her. There was a powerful, instinctive fear that even now grappled with a confused near-gratitude.

Wanda too stepped closer, her own face just as ashen. It took only a quick glance for her to confirm Melanie's words.

"It…it's true. His name is Fords Deep Waters. He relocated to St. Mary's after my insertion. I was on my way to see him in Tucson when I left Los Angeles."

A stunned silence reigned throughout the entire room. Jeb, naturally, was the first to break it.

"Well, well, well." He stared at the unconscious Healer with his curiosity renewed at a far higher magnitude. "This keeps getting better and better."

Reeves chose that moment to step forward as well. Something about the Healer's appearance was nagging at the back of his mind.

"I've seen him somewhere before." His statement was nothing that anyone had been expecting. They all turned at stared at him as one. Reeves did not shift his gaze from the Healer, continuing to stare at him with squinted eyes. "But I can't place exactly where right now."

The object of their attention suddenly began stirring on his cot, eyes flickering beneath the lids. Sunny, who was closest, instinctively took one his hands in her own. The man's eyes opened, blinking both against the bright lights of the infirmary and its unfamiliar atmosphere.

A weak, ragged voice rose from his throat. "Where am I? What is this place?"

Sunny put a hand against his cheek. "It's alright, Healer Fords," she said gently, using the name she had heard Wanda mention. "You are safe here."

The Healer cautiously turned his head on the pillow so it faced here. "Who are you?"

"Sunlight Passing Through the Ice."

Though momentarily calmed both by her name and the reflection in the girl's eyes, Fords suddenly spotted Melanie standing just a few feet behind her. He startled recognition instantly dawned in his eyes, and he sat up in confusion. "Wanderer?"

Melanie simply stared back at them, her eyes widened with fear and her body trembling. Instinctively protective, Jared pulled her even closer to him. He glared back at the Healer with hostile eyes.

The confusion in Fords' mind suddenly began to give way to a dreadful clarity as the realization dawned. Both she and her male companion were standing in direct light. And their eyes reflected nothing at all. A terrible, ice-cold grip suddenly formed around his internal organs as he looked from face to face, seeing the same thing again and again. Reflectionless eyes stared back at him like black holes devouring everything in their horizon.

Humans. He was surrounded by humans. Again.

It was Jenna who instantly grasped the full significance of the look in his eyes and knew that she had to take charge immediately. "Healer Fords." The commanding tone in her voice drew his gaze towards her immediately. She snatched up a small penlight she had been carrying on her own person for the past few days, flicking it on and shining it in her eyes so that the reflection would be unmistakable. "I am Seeker Jenna. Please remain calm. I know you are frightened and confused, but you are in no danger here."

The effect was instantaneous. Most of the fear departed from Fords' eyes, and his breathing steadied though his expression remained apprehensive. Only Jenna and perhaps Wanda would have known that he had been on the verge of killing his host. Something that he had never contemplated before the torture he endured the previous night. Wanda stepped forward, shining a light into her own eyes so he could clearly see them.

"I am Wanderer Among the Stars. You know me from Chicago. As you can see, I am very much alive. I've been in this place for over a year, and in this body for the past five months."

Fords looked from Wanda to Melanie and back again, his confusion eclipsing the lingering fear. "But what…? How…?"

"I am sure that you have many questions, Healer Fords." Wanda smiled gently. "It's a long story, if you're willing to listen. But we do have a few questions of our own…"


	14. Chapter 14

**London, United Kingdom**

**Ten Years Earlier**

**September 18, 20_**

9:47 GMT

The mid-morning time found Dylan Reeves in a state of even deeper reflection than he had ever entered in the past few weeks. He gave no acknowledgement to any of the numerous passersby that surrounded the small outdoor café table he occupied alone. The air still carried a trace of the gradually disappearing summer warmth, and the sky, unusually for London, was bereft of a single cloud. He noticed none of it.

For what was perhaps the hundredth since boarding the plane that brought him here, he re-examined his reasons and motivations. What he was about to do carried the exact same penalty as if he had given secrets to his country's most dangerous enemies. In the eyes of the law, he would be no different from traitors like Aldrich Ames, Robert Hanssen, or Julius Rosenberg.

But there was a great moral gulf which separated him from those men and kept his conscience clear. Not a single American would die as a result of his actions today.

The sequence of events that brought him here seemed to have occurred so fast and yet seemed so long ago. The results of Croft's revelation in Johannesburg had been almost immediate. What had previously been the province of the South Africa's health ministry was suddenly transferred to the hands of its State Security Agency. There had been approximately 72 hours of feverish investigation, as several agencies shared their data and established a mutual command center to trace the outbreak to its source.

The investigation's first goal had been to identify the common genetic factors of all those who had succumbed to the infection. Had they even considered relying on empirical gene sequencing techniques, the process would have been maddeningly slow. But someone had hit upon the idea of subpoenaing records from the South African genealogical society. A careful perusal of these had suddenly revealed that all of the victims belonged to a set of nine extended families.

That revelation led to another breakthrough. At least one of the members of each family had been recent participants in a "Pioneer Initiative" operated by Libera Informatics – a reputed biotech firm conducting research and development for genomic medicine. Each had contributed genetic material that was sequenced and stored in a master database.

Warrants had quickly been obtained for search and seizure of the corporation's South African assets. But it quickly emerged that the company staff and management were completely unaware of how their data had been used. Further digging revealed that their supposedly encrypted system had most likely been hacked at a far earlier time.

The investigation might have stalled at that point. But, courtesy of Croft's unsolicited contributions, another unlikely fact turned up: the first reported cases of the outbreak in Soweto directly corresponded to the start of an urban renovation contract between the city council and a new sustainable development corporation: Frontiers Unlimited.

More warrants had been obtained, and another investigation followed. Eventually, it narrowed down to a single, low-level employee within the company – an American national by the name of Derek Grayson. His arrest had been instantaneous. And a search of his home revealed several bacterial cultures stored in a special refrigeration unit – all of them quickly confirmed as _Yersinia pestis. _

Reeves could still remember Grayson's appearance as he sat handcuffed at the interrogation table. A short, gangly stick figure of a man about 27 years old. A shock of uncombed, dark hair came down to just above his shoulders along with a thick but trimmed beard that seemed a vain attempt at masculinity. Frightened, cowardly eyes stared out from beneath a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. His attire consisted of a black turtleneck sweater and a pair of near-white khaki pants. He had looked every bit the part of a Bohemian intellectual.

The interrogation had proved fruitful. Grayson folded immediately under questioning, and it quickly emerged that he had been dismissed some time ago from a previous job as a database administrator at Libera. He had then hacked the system personally.

But he had not acted alone. There had been someone else. A controller who paid him for his work, and to whom he had given the data from Libera, later receiving back the genetically-engineered plague cultures it had helped create. Grayson knew nothing about the man save for his nationality: an Iranian.

The most disgusting part of the interview came at the end, when Reeves had asked Grayson about his motivations. He could still remember the conversation word for word.

Grayson had lowered his eyes to the floor and mumbled under his breath. "I was saving the planet."

"You were _what_?" Reeves was not sure if he had heard the man correctly.

"You wouldn't understand." He mumbled again, never lifting his eyes.

"Try me." Reeves eyes narrowed to slits.

Grayson had finally looked him in the eye at that point. There was something in his expression that seemed like a sort of self-righteous idealism.

"All you have to do is look around you. Our ecosystem has been completely out of balance since the Industrial Revolution. Not only is our technology destroying the biosphere and causing millions of species to go extinct each day, but it's causing human populations to grow at a rate far too high for the earth's resources to sustain them. And no government in the entire Western world has the will to do a thing about it. Finally, the madness has to stop."

Reeves had been speechless for almost a full minute, as he tried to process the words that had just emerged from Grayson's mouth. Images of the people he had seen in the hospital flashed before his eyes. Dying in indescribable agony. Some of them had been children. At least one a girl no more than seven years old.

A sickened, nausea-like feeling began to rise in his stomach. He rose from his chair without a word. He had obtained everything he needed. And he knew no good would come of his being in the same room for long with this despicable man.

Before he left the interrogation room, Reeves had stopped and turned around to regard the prisoner one last time. He did not even attempt to disguise the absolute loathing that showed on his face.

"There have been men before who used your kind of reasoning." His eyes bored straight into Grayson's. "And they were sentenced to death at Nuremburg."

Reeves had shortly thereafter accompanied an armed team of agents to storm a one-bedroom apartment in downtown Johannesburg. There, they had found the Iranian controller. But they had been too late to stop him from ingesting a cyanide capsule he had been keeping on his person for just such an eventuality. An act of suicide no doubt religiously justified as pre-emptive martyrdom.

But their search of the premises had proved fruitful. More cultures were found in an even larger refrigeration unit, along with a laptop computer. Reeves had managed to obtain a copy the essential files on special flash drive before the computer itself disappeared into the hands of the SSA. For that, he was able to thank the combined influence of both Croft and Dr. Molitor.

The drive followed them on their flight back to the United States that very night. By a miraculous twist of fate, all of the U.S. embassy personnel in Johannesburg had escaped infection. Testing confirmed that none of them carried the plague bacterium. As such, Reeves and Croft were just barely able to board the last flight out of the city before a general quarantine grounded all air traffic. The South African government, fearful at first of inciting a national panic, was finally taking the necessarily drastic measures to control what was already morphing into a pandemic.

Shortly after their arrival back on American soil, the drive passed into the hands of an old friend Croft had in the DI's cyber-analysis division, who returned it to them fully decrypted. In a pleasantly unexpected twist, the contents of the drive turned out to be written in Russian rather than Farsi, and Reeves was able to interpret them without the need for an outside translator.

What they found proved revealing, if a bit eclectic. The controller self-identified as Lieutenant Mahmoud Asadi, an officer in Quds Force, the foreign intelligence arm of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps. He had apparently been keeping a quasi-scientific log of his activities in South Africa, much of it filled with esoteric concepts from molecular biology.

It irrevocably reconfirmed everything they had suspected. The plague bacterium had been deliberately engineered, and Asadi described its intended effects in graphic, macabre detail, cataloguing its steady progression through Soweto, Johannesburg, and eventually the rest of South Africa. He also made vague references that they could only partially understand. At several points he appeared to be comparing his own efforts against those of another agent taking place in Madagascar, comparing the relative effectiveness of septicemic plague as opposed to anthrax. At others, he made cryptic references to a "Project", and an upcoming "Operation." These two references were distinguished from the others by their future tense and capitalized letters.

The man's outlook was clearly that of a fanatic. But he paradoxically embraced a highly metaphorical interpretation of Quranic scripture that seemed far removed from Islamic orthodoxy. He would often read his own scientific efforts into the meaning of prophetic verses, sometimes quoting them in full when describing the desired results of a particular process or method. The effect was bizarre and off-putting, and it made some of his passages difficult to wade through.

They found something else in the drive as well. A schematic outline of some sort. It depicted a lattice-type structure. Dozens of globular objects packed in dense rows within. Both immediately recognized it as a cluster bomb. It was only a few more seconds before Reeves realized he had seen it before. Back in ROSTAM's safehouse. A hand-drawn outline he had produced from memory.

Croft had remained in a sort of silent, near-catatonic trance for over a minute, absorbing what Reeves had told him. Then he had suddenly come to life again, weaving together the different strands of evidence into the tapestry of his own theory.

"Let's backtrack to what we originally found in Johannesburg. A bacterium specifically engineered to attack only those with a specific genetic profile. Behind it, we find an Iranian agent. In the other locales, we find a similar phenomenon, and very likely more Iranian agents to go with it. Now, what interest would the Iranians have in South Africa or any of these other regions? Very little. Why haven't they done this to any of their neighbors, or perhaps Israel."

Reeves could tell from his tone and the manner of his pause, that Croft was posing a rhetorical question. He simply remained silent, allowing the analyst to resume where he had left off.

"The answer would be that they're testing their product. Comparing the effectiveness of different viral and bacterial strains. Asadi said as much in his logs. But let's add in a few other facts."

He was scribbling furiously on the marker board behind the table, covering it with a haphazard mélange of diagrams as he spoke. He grabbed a smartphone from his pocket, thumbing it rapidly with his left hand as he wrote on the board with his left. He pulled up which he then displayed so Reeves could clearly see it. It depicted a black-turbaned, Middle Eastern male in a full beard. Cold, blue eyes stared out from a thin, drawn, but vital face still carrying hints of comparative youth. He recognized the face immediately, having seen it displayed in a dozen news reports and intelligence briefings.

"Consider what we know about Mr. Reza Shirazi, here," Croft continued, seemingly breaking into an unrelated train of thought. "A young, charismatic political unknown who suddenly rises to unprecedented power, the first individual in the Islamic Republic's history to hold the post of both Supreme Leader and President. He's also the most virulently anti-Israeli Iranian politician since Ahmadinejad, and he's vastly expanded the power and numbers of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, to the point where it consumes almost twice the resources of the conventional military. If you take the time to analyze any of his writings and speeches, you'll find that he re-interprets almost the whole of Shia Islam in terms of a "divine blood" theology centered around the 'Sayyid' lineages that trace back to the prophet Muhammad – essentially producing a religiously-justified 'master race' ideology with Iran at the center. That should tell us most everything we need to know about his aims and goals. But there's one facet of his rule that seems almost inexplicable in light of everything else."

He briefly set down the marker to manipulate the touch screen on the phone with both thumbs.

"We all can remember a few short years ago when Iran's nuclear armament was proceeding at breathtaking speed, and the constant estimates of how many days were left until they produced a fully functional nuclear bomb. But all that changed when Shirazi came to power. The Iranian nuclear program, while still active, is now practically stagnant; it's even had its funding cut. That's the exact opposite of what we would expect to see under a leader like him. Unless he had a very good reason."

Croft all at once switched back the marker board behind, scribbling yet another set of conceptual diagrams.

"What if he found an alternative to the nuclear program? Something potentially even more deadly, but more easily concealed because few would care to look for it. If we add Smerdyakov's weapon system into the equation, then everything makes sense. Shirazi has no reason to pursue nuclear development. He's purchased something just as effective and arguably a hundred times more sophisticated. All that's been missing up to this point has been just the right strain to weaponize. That's what they've expended all this time and energy trying to find in South Africa and the other sites. Judging from what we saw in Johannesburg, I'd say they may have just found it."

"How close do you think they are to using it? And where?" Reeves narrowed his eyes. In a way, he already sensed the answer to the question. But he wanted to see where Croft took his theory from here.

Croft did not disappoint him. "Let's start combining everything we now know. First, we have a sophisticated delivery system for a biological weapon which we have practically confirmed is now in Iranian hands. Second, we have deliberately engineered outbreaks of pathogens designed at to attack specific genetic groups. Let's now add in Shirazi's obsession with the 'divine blood' of the Prophet Muhammad." He was back to the marker board now, littering it with a new set of diagrams. "Did you ever know, Mr. Reeves, that religion in the Middle East is defined as much by lineage as by belief? In that region, the terms 'Shia', 'Sunni' and 'Christian' have long since become descriptions of ethnic groups as much as religious ones."

Reeves had, in fact, been aware. But he maintained his silence as Croft continued.

"Another plank in Shirazi's ideological program has been the unification of the Shia minorities existing in the Sunni-majority Islamic states that dominate the rest of the Middle East. Aside from his more well-known hatred of Israel and the Jews, he has also demonstrated an irreconcilable antipathy towards those he labels 'apostates' – namely the entirety of Sunni Islam.

"Let's backtrack just a little bit of this point and recall the Zero system's original purpose. The delivery system for a genetically-engineered pathogen virulent enough to wipe out all human life. But what if it didn't have do something quite so drastic? What if the pathogen it carried was designed to wipe out only a select few and leave the rest standing? We could even reverse the concept – what if was designed to leave a select few standing and wipe out the rest? Perhaps the Sayyid bloodlines of Shia Islam?"

The picture of what Croft was describing flashed before Reeves eyes. And his mind rebelled. "Are you saying Smerdyakov is insane enough to place his weapon in the hands of that kind of madman?"

Croft raised a single index finger. "Let us not be so close-minded, Mr. Reeves. The strain we found in Johannesburg contained a built-in kill switch. It automatically destroyed itself after transmission through a predetermined number of people. Smerdyakov could be assuming – or perhaps ensuring – that the Iranians retain that function in their final product. In fact, he may be planning to cash in once they use it."

"What are you saying?"

"Things get really juicy once we start analyzing stock market patterns." Croft picked up as if he had never stopped talking, his abrupt change in focus almost certainly intended to put his partner off balance. "Immediately prior to the start of each outbreak, we see limit moves on key exports from the regions in question. Oil from Indonesia, diamonds from Botswana, and even coconut from the Philippines. What are the odds of something like that being a complete coincidence? Zero. Someone was expecting the prices to rise – dramatically. And when that happened, they would have raked in billions. Given what we've seen so far, I think the source of those limit moves should be obvious."

Reeves suddenly found himself nodding slowly as understanding dawned. A hollow, ominous feeling started to gnaw at his stomach. Croft continued where he had left off.

"You have to hand it to Mr. Smerdyakov for his business acumen. Spread a little chaos there, and cash in on it back here – again and again and again. The gift that keeps on giving. It's worked for him so far. Can you imagine what he would stand to gain from the skyrocketing oil prices once the Iranians eliminated 90 percent of the Middle East?"

Croft paused to let the image sink in. Reeves no longer fought it. "How soon do you think they would make their move?"

Croft turned back to the computer that still displayed the drive's contents. "My Russian's a little rusty, Mr. Reeves. Would you care to translate that last sentence?"

Reeves complied, leaning down to take in the display on the monitor. His eyes fell on the last sentence of Asadi's final entry.

"The day is at hand. Let Azrael now prepare the way for the coming of the Mahdi." Reeves knew enough of Islamic theology to recognize the two names. The first name referred to the angel of death. The second to a coming Messiah who would emerge to reign on earth in the midst of fire and blood. The fervently apocalyptic overtones of Asadi's final ravings were unmistakable.

Croft squinted down at his smartphone, working his thumbs one last time. He gazed briefly at a webpage he had pulled up. Then he lifted his face, his sunken eyes uncharacteristically solemn and grave. "Yesterday we saw several more limit moves on oil."

The memories since that time dissolved in a blur of motion. They had followed the expected forms. The findings had been passed onto the CIA director. The dared to hope against hope that they would reach the President's desk. Which, of course, they never did. Brendan Hague, the CIA director, was cut from the same cloth as the two analysts that had dismissed ROSTAM's testimony out of hand. And he was no friend of the Red Cell.

What had been the most maddening part was the basis on which he dismissed the report. The Geneva Initiative, he had said, would soon make biological warfare obsolete. Products like Kalocin would eliminate any potential threat from weaponized pathogens. The Iranians had to know this.

It was perhaps the single, most ridiculous thing either one of them had ever seen emerge from the mouth of a high-ranking government official. And that said a lot.

Reeves came back the present, glancing at his watch. The appointed time was approaching. Five minutes left for him to reconsider. To withdraw from what would soon become irrevocable. But he cast the thought from his mind. The decision was made. His path was set.

There came a time when every patriot was forced to examine himself at his core. What was the basis of his loyalty to his country? What was the basis of loyalty to any nation? Only the most blind, unthinking nationalist refused to ask such questions. But for a truly reflective citizen, the answer was clear: its ability to secure his life, his freedom, and his safety. And not only his own, but those of the ones he loved.

In the final analysis, that was the basis of his entirely conditional loyalty to America. Her ability to serve as a force for good in the world and a stand against evil. As long as she possessed the means and the will to fulfill that mandate above all other nations of the earth, his loyalty to her would be unquestioning and absolute.

But on the day she failed in that duty, and became not a force for good, but a hindrance and opponent of it, he would owe her nothing. His loyalty and devotion would be transferred to whatever nation there may be who would take up the mantle she had discarded. It was the love of his family, and his family alone, that truly determined the allegiance he chose.

He thought of his father, who had grown up on a Cherokee reservation, among a once proud and mighty people long since fallen. Illegitimate son of a white man who had impregnated his mother before casting off all responsibility for his child. Surrounded by hopelessness and moral squalor fueled by drugs, alcohol, and corrupt, oppressive tribal authorities who lined their pockets from the all-powerful casinos.

Jonathon David Reeves, unlike the other reservationists, had cast off the anachronistic, irrational attachment that still kept them bound to their ancestral lands. He had abandoned his tribe and nation, refusing to surrender his destiny to ties of blood. In the process he had gained for himself a life and a future, escaping an endless cycle of despair.

The lesson Jonathon had learned was passed on to both his children. And his son remembered it to this day.

The sound of approaching footsteps, distinguished from the rest of the pedestrian traffic only by Reeves' trained ears, broke into his thoughts. He looked up from the table to meet a pair of familiar calculating green eyes, set in a thin, Mediterranean-brown face.

Though they had met several times over the course of their respective careers, Reeves knew the man only as "David", his other aliases notwithstanding. To the public, he was a businessman obtaining British contracts for an Israeli tech firm. In reality, he was one of a network deep-cover "combatants" stationed in Europe by the Mossad.

Unlike the CIA, whose functionaries approached 22,000, the Mossad employed a mere 1200 people. The core of its organizational philosophy could be succinctly summed up in the words of Isser Harel, the man who had established it as a professional organization in the 1950s: "I'd rather have no agents at all than a vast number of agents that don't know what they're doing." For all its faults, both real and imagined, the State of Israel's foreign intelligence agency had avoided the combination of incompetence and bureaucratic sclerosis that was slowly crippling the CIA. And most of its leadership still lived in the real world.

"Dylan," David smiled and held out a hand in greeting, displaying pearl-white teeth. "It has been some time, my friend. How are things in your country these days?" He spoke in perfect English, the lack of an accent almost unnerving.

Reeves arose to accept the proffered hand. "The recession still hasn't ended, winter's coming early, the lunatics are still running the asylum in Washington, and gas prices are still climbing, but its home, and I love it. It's good to see you, David."

David gave a chuckle at his American friend's dry humor as they both sat down. "I've been known to do my share of favors for old friends." His face suddenly became serious. "I would be quite interested to know the nature of yours."

No turning back. Reeves grasped his right hand around the flash drive secured inside his coat pocket, drawing it out as he spoke.

"We may be doing _each_ _other_ a favor today…"

**Tel Aviv, Israel**

**September 19, 20_**

3:00 ITZ

"How? How could this have escaped us?!" Amir Gilad, the Prime Minister of Israel, hissed the words through his teeth. With both hands, he slammed the intelligence report down on the table before him. His gaze, sharp as a dagger, darted about the room, daring anyone to look him in the eye. All ten members of Israel's security cabinet sat in assembly. Their faces were uniformly grim. Their emergency meeting featured only one topic on the agenda.

Benjamin Amiti, chief of the National Security Council, was the first to respond. "Mossad is still in the process of rebuilding their Iranian network from the setbacks during the previous Government. Hitherto, we had assumed the nuclear program would be our primary concern. We knew what Shirazi was saying in public, but we were not expecting such a wholesale diversion of resources –"

"I am not interested in excuses!" Gilad suddenly exploded in an uncharacteristic fit of open rage. "Do you know what this means!? This – _this _is the single greatest existential threat we have ever faced in the history of the State of Israel! And we found out about it only now completely by chance! CHANCE! Because a random employee of the American _C-I-A _suddenly had a crisis of conscience at _just_ the right moment! What if he had given us this information a day later? Or what if he had complied with the wishes of his government and never released it at all?"

The Prime Minister allowed a moment of silence while he regained his composure, allowing the significance of that thought to sink in. He took a deep breath, allowing some of the flush to fade from his cheeks. He spoke again in a calmer, more level-headed tone.

"But what is now past cannot be undone. And we must make the most of the remaining time we have." He abruptly turned to the Defense Minister, Ehud Gilboa. "What are our options for a strike on Iran?"

Gilboa cleared his throat in a nervous gesture before beginning. "There are far too many complications at this time for a conventional air strike. It would require our pilots to fly well over 1000 kilometers and refuel in the air over enemy territory. To reach Iran they would also be required to cross the airspace of hostile neighbors whose radar capabilities –"

"What do you suggest then? Jericho missiles?" Gilad's interruption was blunt.

Gilboa faltered momentarily, but dutifully answered the question. "A targeted nuclear strike is within our capability, but it would carry the risk of retaliatory strikes upon our own cities and political fallout from our neighbors and our allies. The launch trajectory would also cross Syrian and Iraqi airspace.

"Another option that has been submitted to me by the General Staff has been the detonation of a single Jericho missile at high altitude, perhaps 300 kilometers. This would create an electromagnetic pulse that would destroy all electronic infrastructure in Iran and its immediate neighbors – effective reducing it to a pre-industrial level of development. This would then leave it vulnerable to a bombing strike by our air forces, and eliminate much of the threat from crossing foreign air space."

"Are you mad, Gilboa?" The Foreign Minister, Moshe Eilat, rose to his feet, a look of utter disbelief etched across his face. "The pulse from the detonation would almost certainly damage our own infrastructure. And it would result in prolonged deaths for countless civilians in Iran and its bordering countries – none of them would be able to sustain their current populations without a modern industrial base. It would turn the entire world against us."

"If we do nothing, there will be far _more _civilian deaths!" Gilboa rejoined instantly, a flush spreading across his face not unlike that which had previous occupied Gilad's. "We've all seen the report. That biological monstrosity Shirazi bought from the Russians is designed to wipe out _anyone _outside the selected genetic lines. That includes, I may add, the entirety of Iran's own non-Shia population. And even _more_." He uttered the last words darkly.

"Gentleman! We cannot afford this bickering!" Gilad spoke again, his voice filled with an air of command that dared any opposition. "Would that we did not face such a choice. But we must _make _it. What we face now is nothing less than annihilation. Once the Iranians launch their death missile, our nation will cease to exist within the space of weeks. It eclipses everything our people have seen before. Even the _Shoah_." If his first sentence had not been enough to silence everyone, his reference to the Holocaust was more than enough. No one breathed for at least five seconds.

The silence was tentatively broken by Amiti. "If the Prime Minister will allow me to speak, there is one other option."

Gilad turned towards him with narrowed eyes. "Speak up then."

Amiti cleared his throat and looked the Prime Minister straight in the eye with a meaningful stare. "_Tsohar_."

Silence again reigned in the room for several seconds. This time it carried an air of disbelieving awe. The Prime Minister looked at Amiti with another question in his eyes, but the National Security Council chief answered preemptively. "The final testing was completed four weeks ago. The plan has undergone its final review by the General Staff. They await only the order to deploy."

"Is it truly ready?" Gilad spoke in a voice so low it was almost a whisper.

Amiti maintained his gaze, unflinching. "It has undergone all the testing possible without field use. It performed perfectly in all of them."

Gilboa interjected. "That still does not solve the obstacle of crossing neighboring airspace –"

"- nor of the potential civilian deaths –" Eilat added his own voice.

Gilad cut them both off with a forceful wave of his hand. He stared Amiti in the eye once more. "How do you answer these concerns, Mr. Amiti?"

The chief cleared his throat. "There are several alternative scenarios covered in the General Staff's plan. One of them involves crossing Saudi Arabian rather than Syrian and Iraqi airspace on the way to Iran. The Saudi government may be no friend to Israel, but there are several key advantages this plan carries, if you will allow me to explain at length."

"Do so."

"The Saudis are no ally of Iran. They are a Sunni country and an Arab one. And they have always feared a growth in Iranian power almost as much as we do. What I propose is that we pass on some of the intelligence to them regarding the Iranian bio-warfare program. The highest levels of their government may stand opposed to our interests, but they can be relied upon to act in self-preservation once they know the true extent of the threat against them – even look the other way if we use their airspace for a strike against Iran."

The Prime Minister nodded at Amiti's words, a look of genuine intrigue coming over his face. But Amiti was not yet finished.

"They could also give us the means to minimize any civilian deaths and avoid any troublesome political fallout from our allies. As the pre-eminent military power in the Arab world, they possess regional influence that could rally a military coalition to occupy Iran in the aftermath of our strike, restoring necessary infrastructure. We can even allow them to take credit for the strike itself, letting them absorb any criticism from the world community. They are in a far better position for it than we are. Their oil exports bolster their bargaining position with the Western powers, particularly the United States. And they would have the incentive to do so. Allowing the world to believe that _they _launched the strike would give them unprecedented power and influence in the region."

Gilad's eyes narrowed once more. "Would it truly be in our interest to raise up Saudi Arabia to fill the power vacuum once Iran is fallen? They have waged war on us before, and they could very well do so again in the future – this time at the head of a united coalition."

"There is that risk, of course. But two factors minimize it. First, they will be entirely beholden to us for their influence. Their government will know what really happened, and that they owe their newfound power entirely to us. It would also give them pause once they see what _Tsohar_ is truly capable of. And they would be hesitant to bring its power down upon their own country."

Amiti paused briefly, seeming to consider something in his mind. Then he spoke again. "And while we should be cautious about expecting them to be grateful, the Saudis will not be able to escape the fact that we saved not only _our _country but also _theirs _from complete obliteration."

There was another period of silence, as Gilad looked from face to face in the group of assembled Ministers.

"Gentlemen. It is time to vote."

**Marzanabad, Iran**

**September 20, 20_**

5:15 ITZ

"Magnificent." Reza Shirazi, Supreme Leader and President of the Islamic Republic of Iran, breathed the word reverently as he examined the print-out in his hands. His blue eyes, bright with maniacal hope, drank in every word of its contents. The other occupant of the room shifted somewhat uneasily.

"As agreed." Yuri Smerdyakov remained standing as he leveled a penetrating stare at his client, seated alone at a small conference table in the middle of the room.

Shirazi's blue eyes, tinged now with annoyance, flicked upward to meet Smerdyakov's own. With an effort, he suppressed the galling disgust he felt at his dependence on this Russian dog. An infidel and an unbeliever.

"You can assure me that the strain is completely resistant to both vaccination and antibiotic treatment?" He made no effort to clear his voice of the demanding suspicion. "I worry, Mr. Smerdyakov. I presume you have heard, of course, of the recent efforts with the Geneva Initiative. Do you foresee any threat posed by this 'Kalocin' treatment?"

"None whatsoever." As he had always done, Smerdyakov was lying through his teeth. He looked upon his erstwhile ally with a carefully veiled disdain. It was pathetic how easily he could manipulate the actions of this ignorant fanatic. "I have contacts of my own within Wehrstein. They have analyzed the drug's chemical components. It will have no effect on Azrael."

The last two statements formed a half-truth. Smerdyakov did, indeed have contacts of a sort within Wehrstein, though Shirazi could never have guessed their nature. But he also knew that 'Kalocin' was not, in fact, a simple antibiotic. It was something that had never before been seen on Earth, and no earth-born pathogen could stand against it. But its creators could never distribute it quickly enough to stop the weapon he had placed in Shirazi's hands.

The Iranian potentate nodded slowly, semi-satisfied by Smerdyakov's answer. He looked back down at the print-out, allowing himself to be re-consumed by a wave of anticipation.

In his hands, he now held the ultimate weapon. The summit of all his dreams.

In his mind's eye, could see the launch of the missile that would carry Azrael to the skies. He could see the detonation at high altitude, the cloud of aerosol that would blanket the population centers of Iraq, Saudi Arabia, the Gulf States, Syria, Turkey, Jordan, Egypt, and Israel. The activity of the deadly hybrid pathogen as it spread like wildfire from person to person, striking down its victims within the space of hours. Unimaginable chaos would spread in its wake - governments desperately fighting in vain to contain the all-consuming pandemic. In the space of just over a week at most, entire nations would have vanished. Lands and crops would lie fallow for lack of husbandmen. Cities would become graveyards. The flow of the oil would cease for lack of workers to man the fields.

But there would still be survivors, their salvation guaranteed by purity of blood. Within each country, cells of Shia Muslims – each led and trained by an officer in the Iranian Revolutionary Guard – would seize control of the remaining political and technical infrastructure. With the death of the Sunni apostates who had held dominion over those lands, their gates would be thrown open. And the Iranian armed forces would advance across their borders by air, by land, and by sea. Unchecked. Unchallenged. They would occupy the now-unclaimed lands, incorporating them into the new Caliphate that would stretch from Tehran in the east to Jerusalem in the west.

And then he, Reza Shirazi, a Sayyid of the line of Muhammad, would reveal himself as the promised Mahdi. His legacy not only the destruction of Israel but the purification of Islam. And he would lead his people on to glory.

Yuri Smerdyakov could only guess at the reveries occurring within Shirazi's mind. But what he could conjecture filled him with nothing but contempt. It was his own funding that had fueled Shirazi's rise to power and secured the dominance of his faction's ideology in Iranian politics. He knew the man to be a cynical, base, and venal manipulator, supporting himself by a web of lies. Smerdyakov was far from condemning Shirazi for that fact –it was a mirror of himself. But at least he made no denials. Shirazi fervently believed his own propaganda.

Shirazi placed the printout back on the table, rising to his feet. "The Republic thanks you for your services, Yuri Smerdyakov. The first half of your payment is even now being transferred to the requested bank accounts. The rest will follow with the successful completion of Operation Azrael."

Smerdyakov nodded silently, permitting himself the hint of a pleased smile. He knew of course, that whatever Shirazi could pay him would be as nothing compared to what he would reap in the stock market over the next few days. The price of oil would shortly be skyrocketing as never before. And the value of the stocks on which his broker had made the limit moves mere days before would climb to near-infinite levels. Overnight, he would become one of the single wealthiest men on earth.

Millions would die, of course. But that fact did not bother him a bit.

Shirazi pulled back the sleeve of his flowing black robe to glance at a wristwatch on his left hand. "Now, I must go to christen the instrument of judgment. May we meet again, Yuri Smerdyakov. Perhaps in Paradise. Peace be upon you."

The Supreme Leader gave him a slight nod that stopped short of a bow. Smerdyakov reciprocated the gesture. Both of them felt the insincere disrespect of the other.

Smerdyakov remained in the small conference room as Shirazi left. He made no effort to follow. The Supreme Leader could hardly allow himself to be observed in the open with an infidel. As the door closed, he removed a cell phone from his pocket. He dialed an encrypted line that was the only contact the phone contained. A harsh Russian-speaking voice answered on the other end.

"_Report." _

"The plan is now in motion, Comrade General." Though his commission was now long-forfeit, Dmitri Royek always demanded to be addressed in the old style. "The funds have been transferred and the missile will be launching within the hour."

"_Excellent. I trust you have made the necessary preparations?" _

"I will be boarding my plane shortly. My broker purchased the oil stocks three days ago. Within a matter of hours, we will have obtained the funding to sustain the Center's operations indefinitely."

Uncharacteristically, Royek gave a slight chuckle. "_Soon, very soon, Comrade Smerdyakov, 'funding' will no longer be required. I will expect to meet you at the rendezvous point in Tokyo_."

"I will be there, Comrade General."

"_Very good. See to it._" The call ended.

Smerdyakov replaced the phone in his pocket, and stepped outside the conference room, closing the door behind him. He began the trek through the Marzanabad facility to reach the private jet that awaited him on the airfield. He was soon lost in his own dreams, which were, in reality, not all that different from Shirazi's.

**Bushehr, Iran**

**September 20, 20_**

5:20 ITZ

It was a total of three planes that crossed into Iranian airspace after several hours over Saudi Arabia, whose air defenses were conveniently offline. They were neither fighter craft nor bombers, but modified C-130 cargo planes. Onboard, each carried a weapon of almost mythical power, the likes of which appeared in legend and fable but on not a single page of recorded history. It was the crowning achievement of several decades of secret research, concealed even from Israel's closest allies, none of whom would have guessed the possibility of its existence. Had they known of it, it was doubtful they would have believed it.

Inside, each crew was undergoing a flurry of activity. Each commander confirmed that the weapon had been powered and the satellite guidance system locked. Each of them then issued a single command to the pilots: "Rise."

The altitude of all three planes began to climb higher and higher. Until they had reached a point from which all of Iran lay below them. Then each commander gave one final order.

"Fire."

From the underbelly of each plane there was a flash of blinding, all-consuming light. The night sky was lit as if the sun itself had risen. Three identical beams of energy swept the land beneath them, oscillating in multiple directions. Each one traveled over a thousand miles in the space of an instant, losing none of their focus. All across Iran, entire cities suddenly plunged into darkness as the beams caught them in their path, permanently shorting out their electronic infrastructure. The entire process took no more than five minutes.

For a moment, the beams vanished from beneath the planes. Onboard, the crews locked in new, more specific targets on the satellite guidance system. The beams flashed into existence once more, this time at a different, deadlier frequency.

**Marzanabad, Iran**

**September 20, 20_**

5:21 ITZ

Shirazi had just enough time to catch a final glimpse of his prized missile, already in position and ready for the launch that would have carried it outside Iranian airspace. Then he and all the staff accompanying him were abruptly plunged into darkness. There was a brief flurry of confused, dismayed voices.

Then, abruptly, there was light. A blinding, consuming fire, brighter than anything any of them had ever witnessed. It was the last thing they ever saw.

Smerdyakov had just begun to board the jet that would have carried him to Tokyo. He did see so much he _felt _the blast of energy that shorted out all the electrical systems in the Marzanabad facility and rendered his aircraft a useless husk. All the hair rose on his body, and he felt the stinging crackle of static. A high-pitched, piercing whine suddenly assaulted both his ears.

He had only seconds to dwell on the pain. Then a flash of light, bright as the sun, consumed everything around him. He had no time to scream as it vaporized his body.

**Bushehr, Iran**

**September 20, 20_**

5:40 ITZ

The planes maintained their position for a grand total of twenty minutes as their beams obliterated various targets across the darkened, silent landscape that had been Iran. Marzanabad – and its deadly contents – had been incinerated. It was now joined by every single facet of Iran's nuclear and biological program.

Their mission complete, the planes turned about and began the journey back across Saudi airspace to their homeland of Israel. For the few in high circles of the Israeli government who knew of it, it would hereafter be known as "Operation Flaming Sword." As a result of its successful conclusion Iran's technological development had regressed hundreds of years in less than an hour. It was now a fallen giant. Never to rise again. _Tsohar _would enter Israel's military arsenal as its newest and most revolutionary weapon, though destined for continued secrecy.

Within the next seventy-two hours, a combined coalition of Saudi, Iraqi, Turkish, and Pakistani troops would be swarming across Iran's defenseless borders. They would partition the country among them, seizing what remained of its conventional military arsenal and restoring some essential infrastructure. As a result of their efforts, there would be virtually no civilian deaths resulting from the strike. Humanitarian organizations from Israel and other Western nations would also lend their hand to aid the burgeoning population of refugees.

Saudi Arabia would rise to an influence over Middle Eastern affairs that eclipsed everything it had ever known, its neighbors fearful of the power they now claimed to possess. But the Kingdom's leaders, who knew the truth, would be ever mindful hereafter to tread softly toward the State of Israel.

The United Nations Security Council, and the world community at large, would dally for days in confusion before issuing several resolutions condemning the strike. But, as Israel's leaders had calculated, they would accomplish little. Saudi Arabia and its fellow Arab powers still controlled the commanding share of the world's oil supplies, and the industrialized world dared not do anything to jeopardize the flow.

One more threat to the world had been removed.

**Washington, D.C., USA**

**September 24, 20_**

1:00 EST

Reeves had been watching and reading the news reports for the last several days with a feeling of tired accomplishment. It was too early to tell exactly how many details of what had truly transpired in Iran would ultimately find their way into the public eye. It was clear that the Mossad was taking steps to cover up all trace of Israel's involvement in the strike (he did not believe for a minute that it had been performed by Saudi Arabia). There had been another small, but significant item he had seen in the New York Times. It seemed that prosecutors from several European countries were moving against the local assets of a multinational corporation tied to one Yuri Smerdyakov, though the man himself remained unaccounted for. The charges ran the gamut from money-laundering, drug and weapons trafficking, and insider trading. The Mossad had obviously been busy. He would follow the development of that case with great interest.

In his right hand, he fingered the small item that David had recently given him in exchange for the flash drive he had passed on in London. He had informed the Mossad operative in no uncertain terms that he would have to have some piece of their own intelligence in return for the information he was handing over from the CIA. A way of confirming both to himself and to them that although he had gone against the orders of his government, he was not selling out his nation.

He had examined the contents of the drive sometime before, and David had given him an overview even prior to that. Reeves had found it difficult to believe at first. It was a backdoor into the CIA's encrypted personnel files. The Shin Bet had apparently confiscated it from a Russian-born hacker they had arrested in Tel Aviv some years prior. It had then been turned over to the Mossad, who had sat on it in the time since, keeping it on hand should they ever need a bargaining chip with the United States, whose presidential administrations of late had become less and less friendly to Israeli interests.

David had given him a precious national secret as a matter of honor. Reeves would turn it over to the proper CIA authorities eventually. But before that, he had a use for it all his own.

**Albuquerque,** **New Mexico**

**September 24, 20_**

11:09 MST

Trevor Stryder switched off the TV with a flick of the remote, abruptly terminating the latest report of the humanitarian crisis in Iran. With his left hand, he massaged the bridge of his nose, relieving a slight pressure in his sinuses. He felt so tired.

Rising from the recliner where he had been watching the news, he left the living room and wandered into the kitchen, where his wife, Linda, was heating up a cup of decaf coffee. She looked up at his approach, her blue eyes crinkling with worry at the expression on his face.

"Honey… you okay?"

Trevor cracked a smile, putting his arms around his wife and pulling her close. "It's nothing, Linda. I'm just a little tired, that's all."

She gently pressed a hand to his chest, pushing him back until she was able to look him in the eye. Her face was a mask of concern. "Trevor, something's bothering you, I can tell."

He sighed, knowing it was pointless to hide it. He partially turned around, craning his neck toward the staircase leading to the second floor of their house. At the top, he knew that their two children, Melanie and Jamie, were asleep in their rooms. Melanie, the older of the two, had just turned eleven. Jamie was only five.

His mind flashed back to the images he had seen on the news and in the papers the last few days. "Sometimes I just wonder what kind of a world they're going to see when they grow up." He spoke just a hair above a whisper, his eyes haunted.

To her credit, Linda did not reply, knowing that there could be no words of comfort she could offer. She was often moved by the very same fears. She simply returned his embrace, laying her head on his shoulder. They simply remained there, gripping each other tightly until they could no longer ignore the need for sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

**Arizona**

**Picacho Peak State Park**

**October 23, 20_**

12:37 MST

Everyone present in the infirmary had spent the last half hour listening in rapt silence as Fords had given them his account of the past twenty-four hours. Reeves had been a silent as the rest of them. But he had been visibly startled when Fords mentioned the name of the man who had called him the night before. Recognition, both of the name and of Fords himself suddenly dawned in his mind. Now, as the Healer finished, he gave voice to his thoughts.

"Thomas Leben?"

Fords tensed, his eyes immediately darting to Reeves' face. Though his story had been detailed, he had never once mentioned that name. He blinked several times. Then an expression of disbelieving awe came over his face. He too, was suddenly gripped by recognition.

"Dylan Reeves?"

Jared suddenly whipped his face back and forth between the faces of Fords, a stranger to him, and his uncle. His own expression was one of confusion.

"You two _know _each other?" The question spoke for everyone in the room. Jeb, in particular, was watching closely, his face aglow with interest.

"We met in person only once," Reeves stated, never turning his eyes away. "Lincoln invited me to a wedding for one of his friends at Stritch. You were there with him."

Fords responded slowly. "I… remember. You were his old friend from the ROTC. You told us you worked for the government – a diplomat…

"He was CIA." The words had already left Jared's lips before Reeves shot him a withering glare.

"Jared…" The warning was clear in his voice, but it was too late.

"Is that right?" Jeb's expression and drawling tone showed that he was now thoroughly intrigued. "This is getting more interesting by the minute."

Jared's manner instantly changed - as if realizing a drastic mistake. "Jeb –"

Before anyone could stop him, Jeb had taken a step forward and placed his free hand on Reeves' right shoulder. He continued talking as if he had never heard Jared speak.

"I'll tell ya, I've been waiting a long time for something like this. I've got so many questions I hardly know where to start."

"Jeb…" Jared's expression was almost alarmed.

"I'd _really _like to find out what happened to JFK's second shooter, not to mention who else may have been involved in the Twin Towers. But given the circumstances, I think we'd all like to know how long the Shadow Government knew the centipedes were here. Did that have anything to do with why Nixon cancelled the Apollo program to fund all the black helicopters?

Jared closed his eyes and began to massage both temples. Melanie buried her face in both hands, hiding the bright red flush that had come over her cheeks. She had almost forgotten the likely effect of this kind of meeting on her conspiracy-enthusiast uncle. It was patently clear that his questions were intended at least partially in jest. But that fact did little to temper the embarrassment.

Reeves had his own reaction, squeezing both eyes tightly shut for several seconds and taking one deep breath in and out. He then turned around 360 degrees so that he looked directly into Jeb's eyes. He spoke in a calm, but firm voice, displaying the iron control of a man who had been asked the exact same question over and over again by countless people.

"Mr. Stryder, regardless of what you may have seen in the movies – and listened to on certain late-night talk shows – there is not and never was any such thing as an all-knowing, all-powerful CIA. It's a myth."

"Is it now?" Jeb responded with a raised eyebrow, his expression one of amused enjoyment.

"I gave ten years of my life to that organization, Mr. Stryder. It was nothing like you think. If it was, the world might have been a far safer place." Reeves' voice carried a tone of absolute conviction - enough that Jeb was partially taken aback.

"Am I walking in on something?" Mel turned around at the sound of the near-baritone voice to face her brother, Jamie, standing in the doorway to the infirmary with a bemused expression on his face. His face and clothes held a slight covering of dust affixed to perspiration, evidence that he had just come from working in the fields. More mature now, at age 15, then he had been only a year ago, he raised a single eyebrow at the sight of the two unfamiliar faces in the room.

"Jamie." Mel broke away from the rest of the assembled group, grateful at this point for the distraction. She briefly embraced her younger brother, now the same height as she was and getting taller. He returned the gesture hesitantly, somewhat embarrassed to do so in the presence of the entire group.

"Who's the company?" He nodded his head in the direction of Reeves and Jenna, his eyes lit with a cautious curiosity.

"It's a very long story…"

**October 23, 20_**

19:24 MST

The atmosphere in the infirmary was macabre, more like a morgue now than a hospital. The cadavers lay supine upon three metal examination trays, stripped of all clothing save for small undergarments left in place for modesty's sake. Bulging, rock-solid physiques stuck out beneath pale, graying skin, displayed on massive physical frames of six-foot-four. The man Jeb had killed first stared at the ceiling with lifeless open eyes. The bullet hole was clearly visible on his forehead, the edges still caked with dried blood.

As a precautionary measure against decay, Doc and Candy had sprayed the bodies several times over with Clean, eliminating any latent bacteria that would cause decomposition. Short of full autopsies, they had no way of reaching the native E. coli in the intestinal tract, but the bodies would now be preserved long enough for a sufficiently detailed examination.

The four occupants of the infirmary were Doc, Candy, Fords, and Reeves, who had asked to be present. The earlier part of the day had seen detailed introductions on the part of all the newcomers and the various explanations were now behind them. For the last hour, they had been going through the various effects Fords' captors had carried on their persons as well as studying the bodies themselves.

The investigation's findings were limited. None of the men carried any form of identification. The most fruitful clues were their physical condition and weaponry, both of which were strong indicators of a professional military background. They were also all Caucasian, and Doc remarked that the leader's blond-haired, blue-eyed features were almost Aryan.

"You said he spoke with an accent – do you think you could place it?" Reeves spoke to Fords as an afterthought while he examined the leader's pistol. Unlike the others in the room, he immediately recognized the make and the model. It gave him a strong hunch as to the men's nationality, but he wanted someone else to confirm his suspicions.

"German?" Doc asked the additional question almost jokingly.

Fords thought for a moment before answering. He spoke slowly. "No… it was different somehow. More… Eastern. Slavic, I think. It could have been Russian - or Ukrainian."

The look on Reeves' face prompted an additional question from Doc. "You think you know where they came from?"

"If I were to make an educated guess…" Reeves paused momentarily, narrowing his eyes as he fingered the weapon in his hand. He mentally reviewed the men's reported behavior, their appearance, and what Fords had told them of their speech. In the recesses of his mind, it combined with other images and memories, far in the past. "…I'd say you're looking at a couple of Russian _Spetsnaz_ troopers."

**October 24, 20_**

2:00 MST

All the caves' residents had retired hours earlier, and most of the lights were long since dimmed. All but a few were deep in a welcome slumber when the nightmare began. The first to awake to it were Ian and Wanda, lying together in the quarters they shared. Long afterwards, neither one could quite identify what it was that had caused them to wake up right before they heard _it_.

The darkened silence was disturbed by an odd hum that seemed to gradually fade in and out in volume. Fully awake, Ian suddenly cocked his head. Wanda was just able to make out the perplexed expression on his face. The noise suddenly became much louder, revealing itself not just as a hum, but a succession of beats that beat down one upon another. The air seemed to vibrate.

A cold, empty feeling of dread grew inside Wanda's stomach. She had heard that sound before.

Realization spread across Ian's face. "Is that a… helicopter?"

The words were barely out of his mouth when a deafening, explosive blast suddenly shook the ground. Freshly loose pebbles and dust from the ceiling pelted the dirt beneath them.

Far on the other side of the caves, Dylan Reeves heard and felt the very same sound. It did not awaken him, given the fact that he had never been asleep. He was on his feet in an instant. Unlike the other denizens of this place, his memory instantly told him what it signified.

A missile strike.

"What's going on?!" Jared was suddenly awake, kicking off his blanket awkwardly in a groggy daze.

"Move!" Reeves yanked his nephew roughly to his feet, half-dragging him behind him as they both dashed out into the hall outside their quarters.

They nearly lost their footing as a second explosion rocked the ground beneath their feet. The air filled with acrid dust knocked loose from the cavern walls. Fresh cracks were visible in the rock.

By now, anyone else in the caves that had slept through the first blast was fully awake. A chaotic din of panicked, shouting voices echoed through the entire complex. Jeb suddenly appeared in the middle of it all, fully dressed and brandishing his rifle and shotgun in the same hand.

"OUT! EVERYBODY OUT!" He barked the orders as he jogged down the hall, making sure not to miss a single doorway. No one questioned him, obeying instantly with a speed borne of countless drills. They poured as a single mass out of their various quarters, running in the direction of the predetermined exit. Jeb brought up the rear, conducting an impromptu head count as they streamed by him.

Reeves and Jared instantly joined the group. Reeves himself whipped his head about on the lookout for familiar faces. Ian and Wanda had just emerged from the quarters and were joining the back of the group along with Melanie and Jamie. Jenna had just come out with Sunny – Kyle immediately came to her side. Doc, Fords, and Candy had all made it out of their temporary quarters in the infirmary. Doc was currently looking around frantically and calling Sharon's name. He calmed down only when she answered him from the front of the group with her mother, Maggie.

Another blast shook the entire cavern, causing everyone to stumble before regaining their footing just a few feet from the exit. Jeb took up a position on the side wall, waving everyone through as they swept past him. "OKAY, THIS IS IT, PEOPLE! MOVE IT! MOVE IT! MOVE IT!"

As if they needed any orders.

Far beyond sight, three black military-grade jeeps stood parked high up on a ridge just a few hundred yards removed from the caves. Two of them carried ten armed men between them, evenly divided into Team B, commanded by Captain Jung, and Team C, a Russian group led by Lieutenant Koshkin. Lieutenant Chernenko was already leading Team A to penetrate the cavern's main entrance. Two American pilots sat at the controls of the AH-64 Apache attack helicopter that was even now unleashing its arsenal on the survivors' haven – its Hellfire missiles guided by the laser spotter Team B had mounted atop the ridge.

Jung regarded the scene dispassionately, patiently observing the chopper as its latest missile detonated against the cavern surface in a brilliant display of fire and light. By this time, their targets would be fully aware that they were under attack. They would have only two ways out of the caves before the entire complex collapsed under the explosive force, trapping them inside to die a prolonged, agonizing death over the course of weeks. The first, most obvious route was now blocked by Chernenko's team. The other, smaller exit had been discovered by Jung's men the previous day and was covered by the chopper. Soon, there would be human figures emerging from it. And nought but death would await them.

The North Korean commander's unfeeling eyes flickered back down towards the distant figures of Team A, their heat signatures illuminated by his thermal goggles as they neared the main entrance. For the briefest of moments he felt a twinge of annoyance. It would have been a far more efficient method to simply collapse the cavern and leave its occupants to die from starvation. But Chernenko had insisted on taking his own team inside to kill any survivors of the initial assault one by one. His motivations were entirely based upon an irrational need for vengeance. He wanted to make sure that his brother's killer died by his own hands alone. And his plan had won the approval of their superiors, who wanted clear and undeniable confirmation that their true target, Dylan Reeves, had been destroyed.

No matter. It was only a minor inconvenience. And they would soon be finished here.

Exactly twenty people in the group made it out the rear exit, expecting a clear road to safety.

The illusion could not have been more false.

Large plumes of dust erupted from the ground where the chopper's bullets struck as it flew over its fleeing prey in strafing runs. Most of them dropped lifelessly to the ground, their bodies torn in pieces by the merciless rounds.

The survivors, realizing the danger too late, turned around and attempted to dash back inside. But the doorway back into the caves was immediately destroyed by another of the chopper's missiles, incinerating several more of them that happened to be too close to the impact. Only three of them now remained alive, and they scattered one from the other with an unthinking, desperate terror born of despair.

Maggie ran as she had never run before, though she knew it was in vain. Her hopeless fear was rivaled only by a bitter relief that her daughter, Sharon, had been separated from her inside the caves and had not made it outside to join her in death. Her brother, Jeb, and the others now trapped inside still had a chance. But for her and her two remaining companions in death, there would be nothing more.

With the pistol in her hands, she uselessly fired several shots upward into the dark towards her airborne pursuer. A last, ineffectual act of defiance. The gun soon clicked on an empty chamber, having accomplished nothing. She threw the weapon away, pushing her aged body to its limits as she continued to run.

Finally, the older woman collapsed to her knees, her ragged breaths no longer enough to support her. She coughed and hacked against the smoke that consumed the air around her. The beat of the unseen chopper's blades became much louder. There was a sudden 'whoosh' from the aircraft's side. She had time only to cast terror-filled eyes skyward one last time before the exploding missile engulfed her body in a conflagration of flame.

"MAGGIE!" Jeb stood frozen to his post along the wall, his mind refusing the process the horror unfolding before him. His sister was gone. His eyes, glazed with disbelief, stared of their own accord at the newly sealed remains of the rear exit. Several seconds after it collapsed, he had heard the final explosion that claimed the life of everyone else who may have survived the chopper's machine gun. Twenty of them. Gone in the blink of an eye.

The same stupor gripped rest of the group still inside, scattered in various positions between crouching and standing. Hard, adrenaline-fueled gasps of breath were their only indication of conscious awareness. Sharon's face was drawn, ashen, her mouth moving wordlessly.

Forcibly, the group's patriarch shook himself out of his daze. The night was far from over. "OTHER WAY! NOW! ON THE DOUBLE!"

The barking sound of their leader's voice brought the others back to reality. All at once, they began scrambling to their feet, each one doing their best to help those beside them. Reeves jerked his nephew upright, giving no heed to gentleness. They began backtracking the way they had came, twisting and turning through the cavernous passages on their way to the lone remaining exit at the main entrance.

Another blast temporarily interrupted their trajectory. The wall shook and there was the clear sound of rock avalanches from various points in the caverns. Several of them stumbled before immediately regaining their footing and taking off again. They moved on, no longer mindful of the possibility they could be leaving anyone behind.

They raced through the caves for what seemed like an eternity but was only a few minutes at the most. It still proved far too long.

It was Aaron and Brandt who were the first to clear the corner right before the passageway leading to the main entrance. And as such, they were the first to die.

There were several bursts of light and the unmistakable staccato roar of submachine guns. Both men dropped limply to the ground, their bodies bullet-shredded.

Andy and Paige had the misfortune to come up right behind them. Andy made a last, useless attempt to use himself as a shield in front of her. She had time for only a brief, terrified scream before they were both cut down in the hail of gunfire.

Red dots were suddenly visible against the opposite wall, issuing from five separate gun barrels wielded by crouched figures shrouded in black paramilitary dress. They stalked forward with a feline grace, weapons trained, intentions clear.

"FALL BACK! FALL BACK!" Jeb found his voice again just as Paige's body crumpled to the ground. He let of two quick blasts from his shotgun – enough to cause two of the death commandos to dive out of the way.

Obediently, the dwindling group of survivors began a hasty retreat. A few of them, such as Melanie and Jared, stopped to let of a few shots of their own from the pistols they had remembered to grab on the way out of their quarters. But that they had nothing with them to match the firepower of these new enemies. The heavier weapons were stored far back in a separate armory, which none of them had opened tonight, their minds focused entirely on a quick escape.

Reeves alone acted in almost direct defiance of Jeb's orders. Bringing up his Glock, he took a position alongside Jeb letting off two shots in rapid succession. They found their mark just above the Kevlar padding of one of the commandos, instantly severing the man's jugular vein. His closest companion was placed off-guard just long enough to take a direct, mortal hit from one of Jeb's more accurate shots.

Both he and Jeb then took off themselves back down the passageway, just ahead of returning fire from the three surviving intruders. Reeves fired off two more shots behind him, doing everything possible to keep them off balance. When they had managed to put a sufficiently sizeable distance between them and their pursuers, he turned back to Jeb.

"Where's the armory?"

Jeb motioned forward. "We're there." They came upon the rest of the group, all of them quickly distributing weaponry ranging from AK-47s to AR-15s, jamming in the ammunition clips in rapid succession. In the space of just a few seconds, they were all fully armed.

"LOOK OUT!" Geoffrey suddenly let out a yell and two shots from his rifle before several rapid-fire rounds lodged in his chest. The entire group whipped around and began firing madly as their three remaining enemies came into view. Melanie, wielding an AR-15, managed to take down one more of them in a kill shot to the head. Another fell to Jared's weapon.

Only one gunman now remained alive. And he proved infinitely difficult to kill. He rolled out of the way in a somersaulting motion as everyone fired in his direction at once. The most well-aimed shots struck only the Kevlar covering on his chest and limbs.

And he did more than merely evade their fire. First Heath, and then Lily fell to the far more well-aimed shots of his submachine gun, which Reeves recognized by this time as a Heckler & Koch G36.

There was a suddenly gasp of pain to his side. Reeves whipped his head about as Jeb's weapon clattered to the ground and he sank to his knees, one hand clutching his shoulder.

The gunman's reaction was as instantaneous as it was seemingly suicidal. He leapt from his place of cover with the speed of a panther, the flash of a metal blade in his right hand. His trajectory took him straight towards his wounded prey.

Moving at a speed inculcated through years of training, Reeve's mind registered the fact that he had used the last round of his magazine in a shot that had hit the gunman's Kevlar. Instinct took over.

In a blur of motion, he swung forward the stock of his AR-15. Mid-flight, it impacted directly on the man's larynx, instantly knocking him off course. He slammed into one of the sidewalls, collapsing to the floor as he gasped and gagged for breath. The knife clattered beside him. Reeves was immediately on his feet and brought down the stock a second time at the base of the man's skull. Rendered unconscious, the black-clad figure made no further motion.

Reeves swiftly collected the man's rifle and knife, having no time for an extended search. He then stepped back and helped Jeb to his feet, pulling the older man's good arm over his own shoulder for support. He turned his head back and shouted an order to the rest of the group.

"LET'S MOVE!" He immediately started forward, not even waiting to see if they were following him.

It took them only a short dash before they reached the last passageway leading to the main entrance. Reeves paused briefly, allowing his charge down to the floor for a rest. Without a word, he snatched up the deer rifle Jeb had slung over his shoulder, bringing the scope up to his eye. He stepped just to the edge of the entrance. Outside he could hear the thrum of the chopper getting gradually louder.

He would have only one chance at this.

Using an unlikely marriage of skill and instinct, he trained the gun in the direction of the chopper, relying more on sound than on sight. He waited until exactly five seconds had passed, when the sound reached its maximum volume and he could just discern the aircraft's outline in the darkness.

He pulled the trigger.

Less than a thousand feet in the air, the primary pilot in the Apache's cockpit suddenly jerked upright before collapsing forward. Dead within seconds, it was a last reflexive action by his body. There were now two cracks in the glass on each side of the cockpit, tracing the trajectory of the bullet that had pierced straight through the man's throat. His surviving partner had no time to gain control of the aircraft. His last act was a scream of terror as the chopper veered about in a circular helix before crashing to the ground in a fuel-induced explosion.

Without pausing, Reeves lowered the rifle and hoisted Jeb back to his feet. He paid no heed to the stunned expressions of the entourage behind him. He turned and shouted in a tone of command, his sweat-drenched face eerily illuminated by the flames of the downed chopper. "COME ON! WE HAVE TO GET TO THE VEHICLES!"

Atop the ridge, Jung removed his thermal goggles, squinting his eyes in an attempt to see through the conflagration of smoke and flame now obscuring the cave entrance. He did so in complete silence, the men around him too disciplined to give any murmur of surprise or confusion regarding what they had just seen.

Automatically, Jung's trained mind scrambled to recalculate the situation in light of the new realities. The operation had suddenly been grievously botched. That much was obvious. A part of him cursed the American pilots' stupidity in taking their craft low enough to enough to enter firing range. As a professional, however, he had to admire the audacious skill of the man who had brought down the craft.

It was several minutes before the smoke cleared enough for him and his team to see the entrance. They saw something else as well. A large, white van speeding away from a spot several yards away. The burning wreckage had provided the survivors just enough time to reach their getaway vehicle.

Koshkin suddenly came to life beside him, shouting a command in Russian to his own team. They piled into their own jeep, speeding off down the path that led off the ridge, intent on pursuit. Jung had no time to either question or object to their actions. Koshkin, he knew, was motivated by the exact same passions that had moved Chernenko.

Turning to his own team, he barked his own orders in Korean. He would let that idiot Russian have his way. In the meantime, his men would see if there was anything left of Chernenko's force. The fact that any of the survivors at all had made it out of that entrance did not bode well.

Jared drove with the accelerator completely smashed to the floor of the van, caring not for the moment if he attracted the attention of any late night motorists. All that mattered now was speed. Speed above all else. Escape.

As he had on an earlier journey in the exact opposite direction, Dylan now occupied the front passenger seat. He carried an eerie air of calm, his years of training coming back to the fore. He reloaded the AR-15 he now carried, quickly and efficiently, utterly dispassionate, glancing from time to time at the review mirror.

The group had been sufficiently reduced in numbers that they had all been able to pile into a single van. Originally used transporting raided supplies, the vehicle provided plenty of space for their present needs. That fact represented both a godsend and a tragedy – a reminder of how many they had lost, though none of them dared think about that yet.

"We've got company!" Ian's voice suddenly sounded from the back area of the van. Reeves' eyes shot towards the review mirror just in time to see a black military jeep screech onto the road behind them after crossing a side ditch.

No one ever really knew if it had been instinct or intuition that made Jared suddenly swerve the van to the side. Whatever its cause, that one action saved all their lives.

There was a sudden 'whoosh' that terminated in an explosive blast of fire and smoke at the exact spot the van had previously occupied. Reeves' trained mind immediately provided the image of a rocket-propelled grenade. They had been followed.

It was time to end this.

Undoing the buckle of his seatbelt, Reeves gripped the AR-15 with one hand as he stood up in a half-crouch. He turned to Jared, issuing a simple command. "Keep the vehicle as steady as you can." Without waiting for his nephew's response, he quickly made his way to the opposite end of the van, right at the rear windows.

Without warning, he slammed the stock of the rifle against the glass, shattering it in a thousand flakes that scattered across the asphalt moving at blinding speed beneath them. From their pursuers, he could already hear the heavy retort of small arms fire. He ignored the bullets that whizzed past his face, miraculously hitting no one on their way through the rest of the van before exiting out the windshield.

In one swift motion, he mounted his own weapon and pulled the trigger.

He knew he had hit the driver the second the jeep its erratic swerving, tires screeching against the asphalt. Unbidden, Melanie and Jenna suddenly joined him at the forcefully-opened windows, unleashing a hail of fire from their own weapons. They aimed lower than he had. Their efforts were rewarded as the jeep's tires promptly disintegrated in an explosion of air. Robbed of its forward traction, the vehicle suddenly flipped tail-over-end before their very eyes. It came back down in a capsized crash.

Whatever the fate of its occupants, most of whom, no doubt, were still alive, it would follow them no more tonight.

Reeves remained at the window for several more seconds, waiting until the upside-down jeep was a mere speck in the distance before lowering his weapon and turning back from the window. For the first time since hearing the approach of the chopper, he allowed his fatigue a brief moment of free reign, his head sinking down to his chest.

He reluctantly raised it again after less than a minute. Deep inside him, he felt a slow, sickening nausea that gradually rose in intensity, as he conducted the very first head count any of them had bothered with since leaving the caves behind them. By now, all the names came easily. Jenna, Jared, Melanie, Wanda, Ian, Jeb, Doc, Fords, Lucina…

Reeves' eyes fell on the two small forms the woman held close. He could produce even their names now. Isaiah. Freedom. They had been sobbing so much during the ordeal that all they could do now was tremble in lingering fear.

A nightmare. And he had brought it here.

In an uncharacteristic gesture, he lowered his head, supporting it with both hands. There was no denying the obvious. No one, no matter their malice or cruelty, mounted that kind of operation unless they expected a return on their efforts. Likely, they had been keeping an eye on the caves ever since the death of the three _Spetsnaz _agents. Watching, waiting for a pretext to strike.

And then he had arrived. A target to them of immeasurable value. And here he sat. Still alive and whole with so many innocents dead.

Just as it had been before.

Reeves said not a word for the rest of their long drive, remaining fixed to the same spot in the far back, trusting his nephew to choose their destination.

Close by, another man dealt with his own thoughts of failure.

To the others, Jeb now seemed like another person entirely. Broken, crushed, silently staring into nothingness, oblivious to everything taking place around him. In the darkened chambers of his mind, where no one else could hear, he repeated the names over and over again. Maggie. Sharon. Andy. Paige. Aaron. Brandt. Heath. Geoffrey. Trudy. John. Travis. Stanley… All of them. Gone.

Thirty-seven. They had been so many. Together they had defied everything. Survived the impossible. And now…

For the briefest of moments, he emerged from his self-imposed fog to take in the sight of the group accompanying him in the van. One by one he counted them, memorizing their images. He saw Jared staring intently at the road ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel as if trying to crush it. Melanie curled up at the side wall of the vehicle with her arms wrapped around her brother Jamie – more for her own comfort than for his. Lucina doing what she could to soothe the fearful whimperings of her two children. Doc, subdued and tired, yet dutifully screening all the van's occupants for any hidden wounds, accompanied in his task by the Healer, Fords. Ian and Wanda asleep in one another's arms. He ended the count at himself. The three newcomers – Fords, Reeves, and Jenna - he automatically left out of the tally, having learned long ago to exercise the harshest conservatism in his calculations.

… Ten.

Jeb closed his eyes, his teeth clenching beneath closed lips. Even now, he ruthlessly suppressed the tears that begged for release. He felt as if he had aged a hundred years.

She was covered in rocks. The realization marked her first bit of conscious as Sharon groggily emerged from her comatose state. She was also keenly aware of a sharp, throbbing pain on the back of her head. No doubt the spot where the largest of the rocks had struck when it rendered her senseless.

The young woman arose gingerly, wincing at the bruised soreness of her body. A large covering of dust and pebbles fell away as she made it to her feet. She involuntarily coughed several times as her lungs cleared themselves.

"Hello?" Her call came out hoarsely, but created just enough of an echo to drive home her solitude. The only answer to her query was the empty, silent darkness of the cave chambers, barely lit by the few lights that had survived the onslaught.

In her mind, Sharon played back the sequence of events leading up to her loss of consciousness. The missile strike. Running for the exit. Witnessing her mother perish along with nineteen of her closest friends and companions. Doubling back and trying for the main entrance. A final explosion. The avalanche…

She tentatively fingered the tender lump on the back of her head, wincing with the pain. That was the last thing she remembered.

Instinctively, she began stepping forward, seized by a need to keep moving. In her mind, she carried a terrified image of being trapped to die alone inside this vast empty cavern once so full of life. What had happened to the others? Was she the only one left?

"Hello?" The answer remained the same. "Jeb? Mel? Is anyone there?"

Her feet carried her through several familiar passages, slowing as she passed through the cafeteria and kitchen area. As empty as all the other areas she had traversed, it was blanketed by a silence that seemed all the more eerie for the fact that its past state had been one of often clamorous activity.

A dark figure appeared out of nowhere.

Sharon caught sight of him just as she had opened her mouth to call out a third time. The sound never even formed.

In the split second before she instinctively dove down out of sight behind the counter of the kitchen area, she determined that it was a clearly a male. His black-clad frame was one of massive musculature and towering height. Though too far away for clear detail, she had seen that his face was balaclava-masked beneath a Kevlar helmet. His bulging physique was covered in military fatigues. Both hands were tightly gripped around a military rifle of a make she had seen before but could not name. He stalked forward, radiating brutal force.

She struggled to control her breathing, coming in short and hard with the sudden naked terror that now gripped her. It occurred to her the man had been attracted by the sound of her voice. She could hear the fall of his steps against the dirt floor, paradoxically grower fainter and yet closer. Perhaps animated previously by an angered impatience, the man was now silencing his movements - a predator stalking his quarry.

All at once there was a clash of noise. The sound of a struggle.

Sharon opened her eyes, confused and freshly terrified. She dared to glance around the edge of the counter.

What she saw made her blink just to confirm what her eyes were telling her.

The menacing soldier in black had dropped his rifle to the ground, and was now in the process of deflecting vicious blows from a smaller, dark-haired female figure that had suddenly materialized from the darkness, catching him off guard. In the dim light, Sharon was still able to recognize her face.

Lacey.

For a moment, Sharon was perplexed, wondering how she still remained here when all the others were gone. Had she been trapped inside too? She must have been hiding here the entire time, aware of the danger and knowing better than to give herself away by calling for help.

For a period stretching over a minute, both figures parried with each other, using nothing more than fists and feet. From the first, the victory seemed assured to the man in black, who possessed the edge in strength and height. But Lacey held out miraculously long, displaying all the training she had doubtless received during the time she had carried a Seeker in her body. Her face was a mask of determined fury.

In the end, her final show of valor was not enough. A final blow from the soldier cut through her defenses, propelling her backgrounds onto the ground. Apparently stunned, she attempted to rise, but was cut down by a chop to the back of her neck followed by a kick to the ribs. She remained where she had fallen, unmoving.

But the soldier was not finished. His next series of actions were so fast it seemed like one continuous motion. Growling like a maddened animal, he reached down, grabbed her head, and snapped her neck.

The terror metastasized into an almost physical sickness. Sharon drew herself back from the scene, trying to stay hidden behind the counter. She curled up her knees, gripping them tightly against her chest, squeezing her eyes shut as she struggled not to make the slightest sound, not even to breathe.

A large shadow suddenly fell over her. She opened her eyes, craning her neck upward. Lacey's killer stood directly above her. His masked face stared down silently, as if amused.

At this close of range, she could see clearly a detail about his appearance that she had missed before. Above the mask that covered the rest of his face, his eyes were obscured by a pair of green-tinted goggles. They were smaller than those she had seen years ago, almost always worn by military personnel, but she recognized them immediately now.

Thermal goggles.

The recognition brought in its train the realization that the man had likely spotted her from the very beginning. His actions up to this point had been entirely deliberate. Prolonging her fear. Savoring it.

Had he given her the time, she might have run. But his hands were already around her neck. His grip tightened so hard that for a moment she thought he was going to break her neck as he had Lacey's. But he was nowhere near so merciful.

Sharon's darkened at the corners, the remaining air forced out of her trachea. She attempted briefly to struggle, but her captor's grip was unyielding. Iron. She gradually lost consciousness, unable to breathe, unable to scream, her terror reaching a final, silent crescendo.

Then there was nothing.

Lieutenant Cherenko maintained his grip around the red-haired girl's neck for a full minute longer until satisfied of her death. He took away his hands, allowing her body to fall limply to the ground. Several pronounced imprints remained on her neck where his fingers had been. A silent testament to the manner in which she had died.

Chernenko straightened up and walked away, stopping briefly to retrieve his rifle before stepping out of the cafeteria.

Her death meant nothing to him. He had always hated women.

"Are you alright?" It was almost strange to hear Kyle asking that question. He was the one who had been knocked unconscious while trying to shield her against the rock avalanche brought about by the final missile strike. Sunny had lain beneath his body until he regained his senses, not daring to move.

She winced slightly, rubbing a particularly sore spot on her shoulder. "Yeah. Just a little bruised."

His concern momentarily abated, Kyle rose up from his knees to his full height, dusting himself off as he looked around. He suddenly froze. Unbeknownst to Sunny, his sharp ears had picked up a brief, faint chatter of unfamiliar voices coming from the adjoining chamber. He turned back to face her, placing a finger against in his lips.

"Wait here," he whispered. She gave a slight nod of assent, her eyes fearful yet trusting.

Kyle looked her in the eye one last time before disappearing around the corner.

Jung and his men had entered the caves some time before. What they had found up to this point largely matched with their commander's initial expectations. Chernenko himself had turned out to be the only survivor of Team A, the bodies of his fellow comrades clearly displayed at various point in the caverns. Of the caves' initial occupants, there had been only two remaining, both females, and both of whom Chernenko had personally executed with his bare hands. As of now, they were initiating a final sweep to ensure that they had not missed any others still hiding out within the myriad passageways. They moved forward as silent as ghosts, weapons at the ready with Jung at their head.

The commander thought himself ready for anything as he moved forward. But the last thing he was expecting as he turned the corner was to run face to face into the large, dark-haired man that gaped at him with startled eyes.

Jung was about to fire his weapon. But the man, just inches away from him, suddenly lashed out with his fist. Instinctively, Jung brought up his right hand to deflect the punch, letting his rifle drop. He followed up with his own punch to the man's solar plexus and a karate chop to the neck. The attacker crumpled to the floor, his eyes dazed and vacant.

Jung raised his hand again, this time for a killing strike. His team started moving forward, immediately on the lookout for any comrades the man might have covering his back.

"NO!" The high-pitched startled him. Jung lifted his head just in time to see one of his men bring the stock of his rifle down on the neck of a small, brown-haired girl that had just darted out into the open. He froze.

Just before she lost consciousness, he had caught a glimpse of her eyes. Enough to see them them reflect the beam from a flashlight held up by one of his men.

"HALT!"

His men stopped dead in their tracks, automatically obeying their leader's voice. Jung stepped up from the man he had incapacitated, striding purposefully towards the girl's inert form. On his way, he snatched the flashlight from the hand of the man who had shined it toward her. He stooped down, forcing open one of her eyelids with his right hand, while she shined the beam into her eye with the left.

A soul.

This girl was not the Seeker accompanying Reeves. They had studied her photo beforehand and gotten a clear view of her when she arrived at the caves. The last thing any of them were expecting was to find another of her kind in this place. A quick movement of his fingers across the surface of her eyes confirmed she was not wearing disguised lenses.

Jung glanced back at the dark-haired man, still lying unconscious where he had left him under guard of one of his men. His eyes had held no reflection. That had been clear the second he emerged.

He replayed the man's actions in his mind, reinterpreting them in light of this new revelation. The girl had been in the chamber behind him. He had stepped out to investigate…

A sudden fascinated understanding dawned in Jung's eyes. The man had been _protecting_ her.

He stood up abruptly, turning to his second-in-command. "Secure them and take them to the vehicle. See to it they are undamaged."

"What are you doing?!" Jung turned to see Chernenko striding furiously towards him. Though his face was still obscured beneath his mask and goggles, he was clearly enraged. "We did not come here to take prisoners! They were supposed to die – all of them!"

The North Korean commander faced him head on, unflinching. "Our mission was to eliminate a threat to the Endeavour as well identify any potential ones. That girl is not human, Chernenko. And yet we find her here, hidden away in a group of human survivors whose existence was never suspected. What is more we find a human trying to protect her." He gestured toward the inert form of the dark-haired man. "That fact goes against everything we had calculated upon up to this point, and it represents a vital piece of intelligence bearing further analysis. On that basis, I am securing them both for examination and possible interrogation."

"That was not part of our plan." Chernenko snarled, unwilling to concede.

"I need not remind you that our plan has been compromised. We came here specifically to confirm the death of Dylan Reeves – he remains unaccounted for. As such, we must now use all possible means at our disposal to locate and destroy him. That includes harvesting information from anyone who may have had contact with him."

Jung continued before Chernenko could argue with him again. "I will also be presenting a full report of this mission to our superiors. I am sure the Center will be infinitely pleased to hear how easily both you and your comrades sacrificed this operation's true target for the sake of mere personal revenge."

Chernenko stalked closer until his face was just inches away the shorter man's. "I could kill you with my bare hands."

"I have men at my back, Lieutenant Chernenko. You – quite by your own doing - now have none." Jung cast a meaningful glance towards the passageway they had just entered, littered with the remains of Chernenko's fellow _Osnaz _commandos.

The Russian lieutenant looked up to see that his North Korean counterparts were all staring at him with hostile eyes, weapons trained. He looked at them, one by one, seemingly calculating things in his mind before conceding to the reality. He was both outnumbered and outmatched.

A low hiss emerged from between his teeth as he backed away. Beneath his goggles, he stared directly at Jung, his eyes burning with hate. He gave a final, venomous whisper.

"You will pay for this one day."

Jung answered calmly, completely unaffected. "We shall see."


	16. Chapter 16

**Generis Institute**

**September 30, 20_**

**Ten Years Earlier**

10:30 CST

To say that James Locklin had not been a happy man the last ten days was to say that the ocean was wet.

As with everyone else at all levels of the American intelligence community, he had been spending his days and nights consumed with the one story that even now continued to dominate all the headlines of the world. It tyrannized over the thoughts of every single insider, analyst, and policy-maker within the web of warring principalities commonly known to outsiders as the federal government. Frightened bureaucrats and furious politicians demanded answers from disoriented spooks scrambling to perform an impromptu damage control. All the while, they struggled to identify some plausible explanation as to how the Saudis could have crippled Iran overnight without anyone seeing it coming.

Locklin himself shared their consternation. But he also carried his own, more acute troubles, originating in firsthand knowledge that his colleagues did not hold.

The call from Dmitri Royek had come to him that very same night.

He could still remember the calm, deadly anger that had suffused the former KGB General's voice. His words were a whispering tapestry of poison that had moved countless subordinates to mortal fear during his years at the commanding heights of the Soviet system. He had coldly confirmed the demise of Locklin's Russian counterpart, Yuri Smerdyakov – and, by extension, of the entire Middle Eastern sector of their operations.

The man had made no threats. He had given only clear reminders of his expectations, following them up with a coldly factual catalogue of the consequences for failure to meet them. He left no doubt as to which one controlled the other in the pact between them.

There were other things he said. Operation Azrael had not been a total loss. The geopolitical fallout from the strike had still produced a significant effect on the stock market, the profits of which had been immediately obtained from Smerdyakov's stockbroker and now provided a steady source of funding for the Center's future operations. But there were new deadlines, drastically shortened from the original ones upon which they had agreed. Additional tasks, previously left to Smerdyakov's network prior to its destruction. A margin for error now virtually nonexistent. A far greater set of obstacles to overcome.

It would be left to Locklin now to pick up the pieces after this disaster that had befallen them. With Azrael gone, Project Andromeda now assumed a critical importance beyond anything other component of the Endeavour. In a way, Locklin should have felt honored. But that was the last thing that occupied his thoughts.

Royek had been painstakingly specific on one point in particular. There was no possible way the Saudis could have been responsible for the strike. Both of them knew there was only one nation in the Middle East that could have carried out an operation of such skill or developed a weapon of such power.

Locklin had made the mistake of protesting at first. He brought up the near-destruction of the Mossad's Iranian network under Israel's previous government – Yuri Smerdyakov's crowning achievement prior to Azrael. Royek had seamlessly countered, pointing out the American CIA's successful exfiltration several months earlier of a burned asset at Marzanabad who had nevertheless managed to supply them with a steady stream of intelligence for almost a year.

Someone inside the CIA had known something. And it was clear where their knowledge had gone.

That brought him to where he was at this very moment. A short, brown-haired man in his late twenties sat across from Locklin at the conference table, his posture slouched and unassuming. He looked at the Director cautiously with bespectacled eyes. His hands were clasped in front of him on the table, seemingly to prevent any nervous fidgeting.

Royek had made a very clear request. He wanted the name of the agent who had tipped off the Mossad. Whoever this man was, he had nearly destroyed them. And he could well do so again.

"Mr. Detweiler," Locklin began. "I have a very special, long-term assignment for you. It involves the CIA…"

Locklin remained in his office for some time after concluding Richard Detweiler's briefing, staring out through the glass wall that allowed a full view of the outside greenery. The man was now on his way to prepare for his upcoming interview for an opening in the Central Intelligence Agency. With the cooked credentials Locklin had provided him, his entry was assured. There, under the noses of his ostensible CIA employers, his well-demonstrated talents would be put to vigorous use in the task appointed to him by his true masters.

The man who held the position of Deputy Director the NSA closed his eyes as he reflected on his own tasks. His thoughts drifted back to the other man he had brought into this very same room several days earlier. By now, Dr. White was beginning his formal orientation. Once concluded, he would be assigned a senior position on one of the three scientific teams researching the Specimen.

He ruefully meditated on the fortuitous circumstance that had seen him bring Dr. White onboard at almost exactly the most critical time. The man had his shortcomings, of course, not the least of which was his utterly contemptible moral idealism. But he had something desperately needed and yet sorely lacking among so many of the quasi-automatons the Center had enrolled. A mind open to new concepts, an ability see outside the boundaries of his own discipline and place seemingly disconnected knowledge into wholly original combinations. That was not an ability lightly dismissed. And it made him infinitely valuable to the Endeavour, though he remained wholly ignorant of its true goals.

Locklin stared at his reflection in the glass, as his reminiscences took him further backwards in time. Upon entering adult life, he had learned something very significant about himself. He was a monster.

Basic human empathy, which all of his peers took for granted, confused him. He was unable to comprehend, either emotionally or logically, what possible reason anyone could have for sacrificing a benefit to themselves for the sake of another. Nor could he see how anyone could possibly be distressed by suffering that was not their own.

He had no moral existence, no meaning to his place in reality. Nor did he desire one.

This revelation he had kept close within himself, revealing it to no one. He had learned to imitate, though never to emulate, the natural human feelings of those around him. It was apparent from the beginning that such was expected from anyone who wished to rise in the world. And so he wore a carefully-crafted mask which everyone mistook his true self.

Over the years he had read many accounts of others similar to himself. Men who saw their fellow human beings as nothing more than objects, vermin, mere playthings to be manipulated and controlled. But unlike the compilers and analyzers who had written such stories, his fascination was the farthest thing from that of a man trying to understand an affliction he deplored. He saw himself as part of an exalted elite, an order of superior beings. A Nietzschean _Ubermensch_, accountable neither to father, judge, or deity.

He continued to study his face in the glass, breaking visual contact with the image just long enough to watch a few passers-by walk through the grounds of the facility below. In them, he saw an encapsulation of all the contemptible, insignificant excuses for humanity with which he was forced to share his world.

He was a force, a mover. Infinitely superior to them all.

And yet even he answered to a master.

Locklin could still remember that day in London, years ago, when Dimitri Royek had entered his life. At the time, he had been stationed in the United Kingdom as part of the UKUSA signals intelligence agreement with the U.S. National Security Agency and the British Government Communications Headquarters. His current position of Deputy Director had been long in the future.

It had all began with a conversation struck up in a Fleet Street coffeehouse with a Russian businessman. His name was Yuri Smerdyakov.

The Russian's manner had been charming, engaging, speaking perfect American English with no trace of a foreign accent. He proved to be versed and erudite on many subjects, ranging from the underpinnings of the international monetary system to the works of the old artistic masters of the Renaissance. He also exhibited a fascinating perspective on contemporary Russian politics and culture as well as its recent history.

Things became particularly interesting when Smerdyakov revealed that he had been a high-ranking officer in the Soviet KGB.

Paradoxically, he had spent most of his career outside his homeland, acting as one of several controllers managing a vast network of illegal residents within the Western Bloc nations. His own area of operations had been in the United States, and he still retained an intimate familiarity with American politics.

Naturally, this had prompted some additional queries on Locklin's part. He was quite interested to learn how Smerdyakov viewed the conclusion of the Cold War and the directions their respective nations had taken in the years since. Not to mention the seeming ease with which a former KGB officer had managed to acclimate himself to the capitalist system.

The question had left Smerdyakov unfazed. He had simply chuckled and gazed straight into Locklin's eyes with an enigmatic smile.

"Was there ever really any need for the antipathy between our two systems, Mr. Locklin? There is much we have learned from one another. Modern capitalism has ample room for the state's guiding hand, and Stalin taught the Soviet people never to be remiss in rewarding individual talent. How could we have achieved our initial lead in space had we not given due recognition to Korolev and his fellow engineers? And Mikhail Kalashnikov was richly rewarded for the rifle he gave us to arm our troops, and which supplies a hundred armies to this day. Deng Xiaoping, too, saw how individual enterprise would build the socialist future of his own country, and China prospers to this day under his legacy. There are many who would speak disparagingly of the so-called 'Third Way' between capitalism and socialism. But you need only look around you, Mr. Locklin, to see that it is far from a mere platitude – it is a living reality. And it holds the future of the human race."

Locklin had found Smerdyakov's ideas stimulating enough that they met several times subsequently at the same coffeehouse, sharing and comparing their mutual ideas on philosophy, politics, and economics as well as their own various business ventures.

It was on one such meeting that their acquaintance took a fateful turn. At the end of a long and fruitful discussion on the finer points of Jungian psychology, Smerdyakov made an unexpected statement.

"I took the liberty of passing your name on to my primary investor, and he has expressed great interest in meeting you in person. He has a most intriguing proposition for you to consider. Are you interested?"

The question had taken Locklin aback. But by this time, he knew Smerdyakov well enough that his curiosity was instantly aroused. Almost without thinking, he accepted Smerdyakov's offer for a meeting at a recently-purchased manor house he owned outside of London. They both arrived there the following day.

His first sight of the man he was to meet was an image that remained seared into his mind to this very day.

His very presence projected an air of dark and menacing power, as if a mighty conjured spirit of the deep followed all his steps and stood ready to strike down all enemies at his command. His face was a paradox; lean, dry, and wasted – as if drained of all extraneous life. Yet at the same time strong, vigorous, the eyes alive with a grim focus and the mouth set with an iron determination, rimmed about with a small, trimmed beard and mustache. He appeared neither young nor old, ageless and yet impossibly ancient. His hair was purest black, marred by not a speck of gray, his towering posture straight and powerfully erect.

He was dressed, appropriately enough, in matching black slacks and dress jacket worn over a turtleneck that matched their color. Every aspect of this man seemed born to darkness.

The man had turned around from his place at the window to face them. He smiled, revealing flawless, porcelain teeth.

"Welcome, Mr. Locklin." His voice, unlike Smerdyakov's, was unmistakably Russian. "Mr. Smerdyakov has told me much about you. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dmitri Royek."

Locklin had accepted the proffered hand. Royek's grip was ice-cold and yet crushingly strong.

"The pleasure's all mine, Mr. Royek. To what do I owe this honor?"

Royek had simply gestured for him to have a seat at the small table in the center of the study. Smerdyakov, significantly, remained standing, leaving Locklin to wonder who was really the master of this place.

"You are a very accomplished man, Mr. Locklin, and a very well-placed one these days." Royek began speaking, locking his piercing gray eyes into those of his guest. Locklin grew suddenly cautious, wondering at the man's meaning and where he intended to take their conversation.

"I would imagine you have many aspirations, many ambitions for your place in the American government and your mark on the world."

Locklin had instantly stiffened, feeling now a sudden sense of danger. That statement struck far too close to home. His affiliation with the NSA was classified, something he had not revealed even to Smerdyakov. Could this man somehow have….? No, that was impossible.

"Mr. Smerdyakov said you had a proposal for me of some sort?" His words were sharper than they would have been before Royek had given his cryptic pronouncements. He was not here to be toyed with.

A sudden, earnest change came over Royek. He had leaned forward, his eyes blazing with intensity. "What if I told you I had the power to change the face of the earth?"

Locklin stared at him silently for several seconds, perplexed and now truly unnerved. He responded slowly. "I would say you were either insane, or a very dangerous man."

An amused smile metastasized across the man's sallow face. "My story, Mr. Locklin, is a long one. But I promise you that your patience will be richly rewarded indeed."

Locklin had listened. For hours. But that was not all. Both Royek and Smerdyakov had shown him evidence to confirm their account, which on its face was utterly fantastic. They had described to him a goal and a plan that promised limitless, almost god-like power. And they had offered him a place within it.

Once they told him all, he had never even hesitated.

They promised everything he would require for his part in the Endeavour. Not the least of which was the financial support that allowed him to rise to the highest echelons of the NSA. He would be their presence on American soil, providing them all they asked for of his country's secrets and its resources.

No one else of import in the American government knew anything about Andromeda. Nor had they ever missed the paltry funds he had diverted towards it. The projected was supported almost entirely from the vast coffers of the Center to which he owed his true loyalty, using his position to further the goals of a foreign power.

It never occurred to him to feel any sort of remorse. What did treason matter when there was the universe to gain?

**Washington D.C. **

**Pentagon**

**October 5, 20_**

10:00 EST

The acceptance of his application for the new assignment had been an unexpected though welcome twist in what Dylan Reeves still regarded as his continuing exile in the Red Cell. As with many so many other things these days, he partially owed the success to Ethan Croft. The man apparently had an old contact in Air Force Intelligence with whom he had dropped a key word.

The events of the next few days following that had led Reeves to where he was now, walking the expansive halls of the Pentagon, a place he had been only twice before in his career. He stopped to enter into one of several doors. The name read "Lt. Gen. Norman Carther, USAF".

He had a brief word with the uniformed female secretary at the entrance desk, who promptly put through a communication on her intercom. A baritone male voice responded affirmatively on the other end. Reeves entered in through a mahogany door to Carther's office. The general, a tall and powerfully-built African-American man in his mid-fifties, rose from his desk to greet him. Reeves felt the demonstrable strength of his handshake.

"Mr. Reeves. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Please sit down." The general indicated with a polite nod of his head. While his eyes were still cautious, each of the two men was immediately able to recognize the military bearing of the other. That caused an unspoken mutual understanding to pass between them.

"I've recently confirmed that you received the requisite clearance several days ago. I presume then, that you have been given an introductory briefing on Project Sunfire?" Carther placed both elbows on his desk, his fingers meeting in a steeple. His searching eyes scrutinized Reeves' face.

Reeves responded with a slight nod. "I've had time to go over the most main facets."

"And?" Carther raised a single eyebrow. The question was clearly a test.

"Having examined the most important particulars, I feel confident we can produce an effective action plan for the program's future in light of the new realities." Reeves' answer was measured, cautious, carefully devoid of any intricate detail.

"You are fully aware, Mr. Reeves, that your purpose in coming here today is to assist me in de-commissioning this project." Carther's face was void of expression.

"Be that as it may, Sir, I believe it is in all of our interests to ensure that the best use is made of its remaining resources once that process is complete. Particularly given its implications for both national and global security."

Carther silently took up pen from his desk which he used to jot down some writing on a small post-it note that he then handed off to Reeves. The latter briefly glanced down to read the hastily-scrawled message: "We cannot speak freely here. Meet me at Arlington National Cemetery at 1300 hrs. Battle of the Bulge Memorial."

"I share that belief in full, Mr. Reeves," The general picked up seamlessly from where he had left off. "And I hope we can establish an effective working relationship as part of this process. Now, let's go over the basic functions you will be performing in your capacity as liaison."

For the next hour, Carther expostulated to his prospective attaché on various technical minutae of varying relevance. It was more for the benefit of any erstwhile observers than for either of them. The meeting ended on an ostensibly conclusive note, though each of the two men exchanged a final, knowing look with the other.

**Washington D.C. **

**Pentagon**

**October 5, 20_**

13:00 EST

It had only been two weeks since the last time Reeves had visited his parents' grave at Arlington. Unlike many buried on these grounds, Jonathan Reeves had not died in battle. He had instead the fortune to die peaceably in bed after having given his country over a decade of honorable service in uniform – reflected in a Navy Cross and Purple Heart. His wife, Natasha Abramova Reeves, lay interred beside him, her three years of widowhood long concluded.

But this time, he stood far afield from the usual spot in the cemetery to which he came often to pay his respects. Carther had arrived several minutes earlier and still stood with his back to Reeves in front of the Battle of the Bulge Memorial. His eyes were fixed on the mural and text carved into its surface. He acknowledged Reeves' arrival only by speaking aloud.

"We commemorate the sacrifice of so many brave men and women here, Mr. Reeves. People who triumphed over incredible odds in service to their country. Yet we often forget one thing that makes their efforts truly heroic: the fact they went forth to their duty when their leaders at home made decisions that almost ensured their deaths."

Reeves remained silent, sensing that the general had not yet finished.

"Did you know, Mr. Reeves, just how unprepared we really were at the beginning of World War II? Our military strength had been so drastically reduced that our troops in the Philippines were forced to fight off the Japanese with leftover rifles and grenades from the Spanish American War. We sent 82 of our pilots into combat at Midway in obsolete torpedo planes and only 12 came back alive. Throughout the entirety of the war, we were never were able to produce a tank to match the ones the Germans used. There need not to have been so many from that conflict buried here today if our government had had just a small portion of foresight.

"You would think we would have learned from the experience going into Korea. But we didn't. Two years before the war broke out, we withdrew most of our occupation troops from the peninsula under a U.N. resolution, leaving only a force of 16,000 South Koreans (to whom we deliberately denied heavy weapons) and 7500 lightly-armed Americans to deter a North Korean army of 150,000. We managed to drive the Communists back to the North when they overran almost the entire peninsula, but it cost us a death toll comparable to World War II.

"Not even 20 years later, we bungled our way through Vietnam with no will to win and accomplished exactly nothing. We followed that up in the '90s with a stunning victory in the Gulf War, but we promptly squandered it all by leaving Saddam Hussein in power and ignoring all the signs leading up to 9/11. We then found ourselves forced first into Afghanistan and then back into Iraq, with yet another military death toll we need never have had."

Still with his back to Reeves, the general closed his eyes and bowed his head, seemingly entering a state of meditation. Reeves chose that moment to speak.

"You had a reason for bringing me here, General. Telling me this may have been part of it, but it can't be all of it."

Carther held his position for several more seconds before he raised himself and turned around, looking Reeves straight in the eye.

"I have very good reason to believe that my office is bugged. I've accumulated a lot of enemies during my time in Washington. It's probably a sign I should retire. But God knows we need all the people we can get in this city who still have some capacity left for rational thought. You don't see much of that these days on Capitol Hill or in the White House. And in the Pentagon less and less.

"You've had time to analyze Sunfire, Mr. Reeves. You know what it's already accomplished and by this time you're fully aware of its implications."

Reeves gave a nod of affirmation. "I know enough to see past its official cover as a nuclear fusion R&D. That was a clever ruse. You think it might have worked too well?" His reference to the cutoff of the project's funding was clear.

Carther chuckled bitterly. "Putting the program out in the open would have _ensured _its cancellation. What we're working with is too revolutionary – it would change every aspect of our way of life. It would upset every single vested interest currently existing in this country, whether in industry, academia, or our regulatory bureaucracy. The same people who finance the careers of a good 90 percent of our Senators and Congressmen."

"Point taken." The dryness in Reeves' voice was telling.

"You know as well as I do that cancelling that program is strategic suicide," Carther continued where he had left off. "And that's something none of us can afford. Especially now, with Saudi Arabia suddenly emerging as the new superpower in the Middle East, the U.N. – and what's left of NATO - reeling like a collection of drunken sailors, and the Chinese and Russians stepping in to take advantage of the chaos around the world. The balance of power as we know it is dead."

"I'm not about to argue with that." Reeves responded with laconic brevity.

Carther gave himself a silent pause. His eyes were clouded with the heaviness of his thoughts for several seconds. He spoke again without moving.

"I can't just allow this project to die Mr. Reeves. And I'm saying that not just as a soldier and a patriot but as someone who cares about the future of the human race. Scrubbing Sunfire won't just leave us vulnerable to our enemies – it will mean losing over 500 years of advancement in the blink of an eye. We'll be turning our backs on a discovery that could benefit _billions_."

An iron hardness suddenly entered the general's eyes. His entire body seemed to stiffen in a gesture of defiance.

"I'm not going to sacrifice my grandchildren's future because of a few short-sighted politicians who can't see past the next election." He whispered the statement fiercely, as much to himself as to Reeves.

Reeves suddenly saw himself back in London, remembering the thoughts that had gone through his mind as he prepared to do the unthinkable. The thoughts and memories of his sister, her family, everyone he still had left in the world. It took a great effort to let none of it show on his face.

"I understand exactly what you're saying, General." He spoke with an honesty far more profound than Carther realized. "But what exactly is it you have in mind?"

Carther looked up to meet his eyes. Surprisingly, they held an amused glint.

"You're the analyst, Mr. Reeves. You tell me."

Reeves knew perfectly well that the man was being facetious. Carther had read enough of his profile to know that he had only recently been transferred to the Red Cell on an exceptional technicality. He also realized that he had just been cleverly hooked. Whatever Carther intended, he was in this. No matter what he had intended in the beginning or what he would have to do.

He paused for a deep breath, closing his eyes as he gathered his thoughts. "There are a few things for both of us to do…"

**Sioux Falls, South Dakota**

**October 6, 20_**

00:39 CST

The air was chill tonight. The streets of the city were darkened, empty, illuminated only by the faint light of distant lamps and pulsating yellow traffic lights. Those who had spent any number of late nights here could recognize those lights as an indicator that 90 percent of all traffic had ceased until the coming of morning. A thin blanket of late night snow – still falling – lay as far as could be seen. Evidence of a winter coming several months early.

The empty silence of the streets was broken by a single black Dodge Charger that gradually came to a stop at a nearby curb, switching off its headlights. The driver's door opened to admit a towering figure that rose several feet above the roof of the vehicle.

Detective Jason Faulkner's normally smiling, boyish face wore a look of grim sobriety, seemingly out of place among his freckles. His blue eyes darted from side to side and he kept one hand close to the sidearm concealed in his trench coat. The atmosphere felt wrong. Exposed. But the informant had told him this would be the place.

Faulkner moved forward cautiously, his red hair already flecked with white from the drifting snowflakes. Though his mind was firmly in the present, he had reflected often on past events the last few days.

He had moved to Sioux Falls from Chicago three years ago; drawn, like so many others, by the more hopeful prospects of South Dakota's burgeoning metropolis. Unlike most cities around the country, Sioux Falls had remained relatively untouched by the recent recession, its continuing prosperity fueled by the oil boom to the north and South Dakota's low-tax business environment.

But the growth was coming with a cost that the city's police force dealt with every day. Too often, as of late, he felt as if Chicago had followed him.

It would have been smarter to come here with backup. But no one in the Department was inclined to oblige him right now. Not after the way he had single-handedly discredited himself with what they still called his "conspiracy theories." He could still remember the Narcotics Sergeant's condescending, dismissive voice. "I think it's time for you to put away the paperbacks and start living in the real world, Kid. This is Sioux Falls, not New York or L.A."

It was the world "kid" that still burned him. He had made detective at the comparatively young age of 25. Some of his older peers in the Department looked on that as the impressive accomplishment it truly was. Others, his sergeant prominent among them, saw only a threatening upstart. And they were far louder about their feelings than the former group.

He continued moving forward, his mind filled with the purpose that brought him here.

"Looking for me, Detective?" A mocking, accented voice emerged from the darkness behind him.

Faulkner whirled about, right hand firmly gripped around the Glock beneath his coat. He recognized the face immediately, having seen it on a dozen mug shots while perusing arrest records. It was a mélange of tattoos and knife scars framed by a dark fringe of beard, contorted by a disdainful sneer.

In just the last 72 hours, he had had the misfortune to meet its wearer once before in person.

Andre Vaslov. The man he had come here for.

The Russian émigré had two others standing just behind him, their forms large and menacing. From their swarthy, dark complexions, they appeared to be Hispanic, or perhaps Samoan. They made an odd contrast with Vaslov's almost deathly pale, albeit tattooed appearance.

"I told you this would be too big for you." The arrogance in Vaslov's voice took on a threatening edge.

Faulkner gripped his weapon tighter. He narrowed his eyes, hardened with a steel resolve.

"It's a little late for that. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. You make the decision."

Vaslov's sneer only widened, his eyes flashing with a glint of sadistic amusement. They looked at something behind him.

"That's already done."

The voice came from behind.

Faulkner whirled about in a flash, yanking his weapon from its holster.

His eyes caught only a glimpse of the muzzle flash before the bullet slammed into his skull.

Then there was nothing.

There were a total of six men in the room. Four of them included Vaslov, his brother Leon, and their two accomplices. The other two were Asian-featured men of medium height. Their nationality was uncertain, but Vaslov felt certain they were Koreans.

"Faulkner has been removed?" The senior of their two erstwhile employers was the first to speak. He was seated directly across from Vaslov at a wooden table. His counterpart guarded the doorway through which the four had entered.

"As agreed." Vaslov contemptuously tossed an object onto the table between them. James Faulkner's badge. He nodded toward Leon. "My brother does not miss."

The other man nodded in approval.

"I have also just received confirmation that the shipment has reached its intended destination. You and your companions have done well, Mr. Vaslov."

The man lifted a briefcase standing beside his chair, placing it on the table. There two sharp clicks as he undid the locks and lifted the lid, reaching inside. An anticipatory gleam appeared in Vaslov's eyes as he awaited his payment.

"Your services are no longer required."

The hearts of all four men died within them as they stared down the barrel of a silencer affixed to an automatic weapon. It was the last thing they ever saw.

**Sioux Falls, South Dakota**

**Sanford Hospital**

**October 6, 20_**

5:05 CST

Dr. Russell Haddad looked up from his desk as the newcomer entered his office. He immediately rose upon confirmation of the man's identity.

"Lieutenant Rollins. I'm glad to see you made it."

Rollins gave a polite nod. His complete – and far more cumbersome – title was Property Crimes and Narcotics Lieutenant for the Detective Division of the Sioux Falls Police Department. He began speaking as he closed the door behind him.

"I came here as soon as I got your message, Doctor. Sorry for the delay."

Both men immediately switched the tone and manner of their conversation as soon as the office had been cut off from any outside ears.

"You said you had something very important to discuss with me, Healer Wind Song?" The Seeker who had carried the identity of Lieutenant Kurt Rollins for the past three months stared intently into the eyes of his fellow soul.

Healer Wind Song, known for the past six months as Dr. Russell Haddad, nodded gravely. "It's in regard to Detective Faulkner."

"Rollins" felt an involuntary tightening of his abdomen. He - along with the entire department – had just recently received the news. Faulkner had been found in an abandoned alley, bleeding from a gunshot wound to the head.

"How bad?" He asked the question automatically, already sensing the purpose of the meeting.

"He was brain dead upon arrival. We have him on life support right now because he's listed as an organ donor."

The Seeker closed his eyes, picturing Faulkner lying on some hospital bed, wired up to a plethora of machines and equipment, so cumbersome and grotesque compared to their kind's treatments. And rendered all the more so by the fact that they could do nothing to keep him truly alive.

"Do you believe his body can be salvaged?" That question too, was automatic.

"We can repair the damage to the brain tissue easily enough, but there will likely be gaps in the short term memory. That may be a minor inconvenience when placed against several other factors in our favor, however. If used as a host, the body's initial brain death will mean the original personality is non-existent. Faulkner also has no next of kin or potentially suspicious relatives, and we can easily get around his donor status. The donor network has been successfully penetrated, and they are now fully capable of disguising our healing treatments as organ transplants. It will be a simple matter to rework the necessary records with no one the wiser. Nevertheless, I felt it prudent to seek your input before taking any action in this matter."

The Seeker's response was a contemplative silence as he weighed import of the various points. The Healer stood respectfully for several seconds before issuing a final, quiet statement. "It's your call."

He finally came to a decision. Lifting his eyes, clearly reflective now in the light of the desk lamp, he uttered two words.

"Do it."

**Sioux Falls, South Dakota**

**Sanford Hospital**

**October 10, 20_**

As far as anyone knew, Detective James Faulkner had died in a random shooting, such as were becoming steadily more common in Sioux Falls as the city grew. The cadaver they had substituted for his body was buried with full police honors.

Four days later, no one took a second look at the discharge of a mysterious patient with a suspicious resemblance to the late detective.

Seeker Voice of All Waters, recently arrived from the See Weed planet would be traveling alone in his new host's body to a new identity and occupation in Colorado, well removed from anyone potentially connected to Jason Faulkner. As Healer Wind Song had predicted, he found his host's memories spotty at times, but he was still able to function well enough. In a way, the gaps in the memories aided his adjustment in making the body his own, though they could provide an annoyance at times. There one particularly significant black spot in the time period before Faulkner's death, though he was not about to complain about missing that particular experience.

At any rate, given the slight abnormalities of the situation, many of the usual expectations would not apply to this host. None would brand him a Skipper if he chose not to remain in it forever.


	17. Chapter 17

**Los Angeles, California**

**October 25, 20_**

_8:00 PST_

Dylan Reeves came as close to swearing as he ever had in his heretofore straight arrow existence.

They had arrived here too late. The _Odyssey _and her sister ship were both now barely visible several miles outside the harbor.

It was a staggering setback on top of everything else they had experienced over the past 24 hours.

Following the narrow escape from the caves, Jared had taken the van, bullet-ridden and windows shattered, far up the northern interstate, relying on the darkness and late hour to hide them from any Seeker patrols.

Eventually, they had stopped for a respite in Flagstaff, abandoning their obviously damaged vehicle for another that Jared and his uncle stealthily commandeered from a car lot. From that point, the decision had been made which led to their parting of ways.

Reeves had seen that it had been a mistake for him to accompany his nephew back to Arizona. It was clear who their pursuers had truly been searching for. As long as he remained near them, they were all in danger. He was not about to take that risk any longer – the death toll spoke for itself. Especially when there were children involved.

He would return to Los Angeles with Jenna – who insisted on coming with him and who he was not about to refuse. The rest of them were to continue on to Denver to rendezvous with one of the other main groups of survivors to the north. He knew full well that both he and Jenna would still be in great danger themselves, but that no longer mattered.

In retrospect, he should have foreseen his nephew's stubbornness. Jared had flatly refused to be left behind. "You're not going to cut me loose and run off again like you did seven years ago, Dylan. You can't protect me anymore. I'm in this now, whether you like it or not."

After that there had been a sort of domino effect. Melanie had refused to let Jared leave without her. Wanda had insisted they would all need her along to deal with any Seekers. Ian was not about to let Wanda lave without him. The chain may have continued further, but Melanie promptly cut it off when Jamie tried to join them.

The boy had protested, of course, citing the fact that he was now fifteen and able to face danger as well as any adult. But Jeb had stepped in to quiet him. The group continuing on to Denver would need manpower for protection on the way. And three men able to handle a weapon would be far better than two (Fords was out of the equation on that point).

And so they had all come to the current settlement. Jeb had departed with the others towards Denver using the van provided by Reeves and Jared. The latter had subsequently appropriated another vehicle suitable for the needs of the party going back to Los Angeles.

For the next several hours, they had driven through the night until they reached Los Angeles, bound for Terminal Island, where Reeves still intended to find the answers that had now become so critical.

Now, once again, those answers had slipped out of his grasp when they had been so close.

"What now?" Jared's voice broke into his thoughts. Reeves turned to face his nephew over the roof of the van. Jared was leaning on the open front passenger door. He did not return his uncle's gaze, his eyes fixed on the two ships disappearing over the horizon.

Reeves hesitated before he answered. "For now, we backtrack. Catch our bearings while we figure out our next move." He almost took himself aback by how easily he confessed his own lack of certainty.

Without a further word, they both climbed back into their respective sides of the van, closing the doors behind them.

Had any of them known what was taking place even as they spoke, they would have had no concern for the _Odyssey_.

At each of the seven premier cities of the North American continent, a hidden army was mobilizing after a long winter. Bringing to fruition a plan over half a century in the making. Waiting, watching, and preparing until now their appointed day.

One by one, the members of each cell signed on to a mobile data network which would subsequently be disconnected for communications silence. Far across the sea, an invisible, shadowed authority waited until it verified that its assembled force stood ready. It responded with a single, cryptic message that flashed across the screens of a dozen specially-designed laptops.

_Lucifer is fallen_.

**New York City**

**NYSE**

**October 25, 20_**

_11:00 EST_

The conflagration began in New York City on the island of Manhattan.

Any time traveler arriving from ten years in the past would have that, in appearance at least, very little had changed about the New York Stock Exchange. The screens overlooking the trading floor were as active as they had ever been. The traders still clustered at their tables, quick and on their toes as they followed the activity of the various commodities. But our traveler may have noticed a more serene, orderly aspect to their mannerisms and behavior, far removed from the controlled chaos of their forbearers in generations past.

These were Reckoners. Practitioners of a vital and yet often overlooked Calling among the souls. They were the compilers, accountants, and coordinators that maintained the flow of a seemingly impossible economic system that functioned with no currency whatsoever. Every storefront and center of provision was linked to the system they maintained, tracking the supply and demand of the world's commodities as they coordinated their movement through the various distribution channels. It had been an all-too-simple task to convert the Exchange's infrastructure to their needs. Their calling existed in some form on every world taken by the souls, and no world could have functioned without them.

They were not the only ones who knew this.

Absorbed in their work, none of them noticed the two black-clad men who had entered the building one at a time. Nor did they witness each of them take up position at a point that gave them a full visual command of the entire floor. No one saw the weapons they drew.

The steady buzz of activity on the floor was abruptly punctuated by a series of staccato, thundering blasts. The images on several ceiling screens terminated in a shower of sparks and shattered glass. Several of the floors occupants fell where they stood, some wounded, some slain. Those nearest to them froze for a split second, momentarily unable to process what their eyes had just seen. When realization dawned, they quickly dropped to the ground, hands over their heads in a vain, instinctive attempt to shield themselves. There was a collective scream of terror and confusion.

The gunmen sent out several more shots over the heads of the crowd for good measure. Enough to let them know who was in control. Three more armed men, clad like their comrades in black military fatigues, stepped onto the floor through the unguarded main entrance. Two of them took up a position to provide cover for the third, who strode unchallenged through the midst of the terrified crowd, uniformly crouched to the ground. Now their hostages.

The third gunman came a stop at one of the trading tables, clustered about with various PC screens and keyboards. He unslung a pack he had been carrying over his left shoulder. It was unzipped to produce a small mobile tablet which he then linked to a port on one of the computers with a connecting cord. One of the Reckoners was close enough to observe his actions as he began to key a string of input onto the tablet. The man's eyes suddenly widened, and he leaped to his feet, shouting aloud. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

There was an immediate blast of gunfire from one of the two standing guard. The figure at the table did not even turn around as the man's bullet-ridden dropped lifelessly to the ground behind him. He momentarily ceased his input on the tablet, watching until he was satisfied that his program had begun its upload.

Placing the tablet carefully down upon the table, he turned, exchanging a nod of affirmation with his two comrades. It would take no more than five minutes for the scrambler virus to complete its upload. He glanced down at his watch. At this very moment, the next phase was already in motion. Scenes almost identical to this one were even now playing out in Washington D.C., Boston, Miami, Houston, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles, as their comrades seized control of the essential infrastructure. In this pacified world, they would meet virtually no resistance.

He closed his eyes momentarily. Outside the doors of the Exchange itself, he could almost imagine he heard the sounds of the burgeoning carnage.

The Vanguard had been unleashed.

**Los Angeles, California**

**October 25, 20_**

_8:27 PST_

"Look alive. We've got company."

Wanda spotted the distinctive flash of blue-red lights in the review mirror a split second after Ian spoke. They were mounted atop a black-and-white painted vehicle whose affiliation was unmistakable – as was the party for whom its lights – and siren – were meant.

Heart-rate abruptly rising, she instinctively clenched her hands on the wheel – having switched places with Reeves right before crossing the Vincent Thomas bridge off of Terminal Island. Ian sat in the passenger seat beside her, eyes fixed on the review mirror and expression grim. He drew the pistol from his jacket and held it downwards out of sight in his right hand – just in case. Wanda obediently pulled over to the side of the fairway and came to a stop as the police car pulled up behind them.

They had taken the route down Harbor Fairway in a conscious effort to avoid passing right by the Los Angeles Police Department's Fifth Precinct station, which even now was clearly visible over the eastern ridge. Apparently, that had not been enough. By some perverse twist of chance, yet another black-and-white was parked on the opposite side of the fairway right by the cement divider. The Seeker it belonged to was currently at the open car window of a pulled-over motorist.

Ian glimpsed it long enough to mentally ask _What kind of idiot parks on the left side of the road_ before focusing his entire attention on the uniformed figure marching steadily up alongside the van's driver side. Wanda slowly lowered the window as he approached, taking care to rid the nervousness from her voice.

"How may I help you, Seeker?"

The Seeker was an early middle-aged man with auburn hair and sun-tanned skin. He smiled at her kindly, but his jade-green eyes held a cautious air that bordered on suspicion.

"I apologize for the inconvenience, Ma'am. Right now we're performing periodic stops as a security precaution. I'm sure you've seen the recent news reports."

Just out of view in one of the back captain seats, Reeves automatically stiffened. His full features were obscured beneath a pair of polarized lenses and an old Dodgers cap. In the far back, Jenna wore a similar disguise, consisting of dark glasses and a black headscarf.

Wanda returned the smile, disguising her anxiety as alarmed understanding. "Oh, yes, I have. I completely understand."

Seekers smiled again, this time seemingly more at ease and somewhat humorously. "Your vehicle just happened to match some of our search parameters, and we'd like to eliminate it as a suspect. If you don't mind, I have just a few questions."

"Go right ahead, Seeker." Though she knew that she herself could have nothing to fear from a fellow soul, Wanda's heart was now pounding in terror. She forced herself to be strong, thinking only of the companions she had with her.

"How many with you?" Seeker glanced briefly into the interior of the van.

"There are six of us. We're traveling to a family reunion in Tucson." Wanda answered quickly, anticipating his next question as she did so. A cold sweat broke out on her palms. She wondered how much he had been able to see.

A strange look appeared on the Seeker's face. As if he sensed something amiss. "Would you mind having everyone step out of the vehicle for a moment?"

The blood of everyone in the van suddenly turned to ice. Reeves stealthily released the safety on his weapon. Jared followed suit. Ian happened to notice that the other Seeker across the fairway had just allowed his motorist to drive off. He was now standing right beside his own vehicle, observing the activity of his counterpart with seeming curiosity.

Wanda's face went completely pale. She opened her mouth to respond even as her near-panicked thoughts tried and failed to produce a satisfactory answer. Some kind of excuse. A delay, a diversion. Something, _anything_.

All at once, none of it became necessary.

Ian was the first to spot the black Suburban that came roaring out of nowhere. The Seeker across the fairway may have caught a brief glimpse of it – right before it slammed into his body.

There was the crunch of metal against metal. The Seeker was physically crushed between the grille of the Suburban and now-demolished remains of his own vehicle. The impact shattered all of his bones.

The Seeker who had just spoken to Wanda broke off and spun around – just as a hail of bullets tore through his chest. Everyone inside the van ducked just in time to avoid the rounds as they continued on through the windows. The Seeker staggered backwards and collapsed against the driver's door, leaving a smeared trail of his own blood as he sunk to the ground.

All of this took place in the space of second.

Jared responded first.

The van's left side door was flung open, admitting a stream of returning fire from an AK-47. The shooters from the Suburban had clearly not expected anything like this, for they hesitated just long enough for Reeves to jump out under the cover of his nephew's weapon, grabbing the Seeker and physically dragging/lifting him into the van.

"Go! Go! Go!" Reeves barked the command to Wanda just as Jared yanked the door shut behind him.

As if she needed him to tell her.

She had the gas pedal already pinned against the floor. It took the van approximately five yards.

Just before the Fifth Precinct building erupted in a massive fireball.

The shockwave was enough to momentarily knock the van off its course. It almost flipped. Wanda abruptly corrected with the wheel, swerving back into course. The blood pounded in her ears, filled with a high-pitched ring.

"What's going on?!" Ian shouted loudly, struggling to hear himself through his own momentary deafness.

"Keep moving!" Reeves gave only a short response, all of his actions automatic and instinctive, not allowing any of them to succumb to distraction. He knelt atop the body of the Seeker, who lay prone against the floor of the van between the two captain seats. His attention was fully concentrated on applying pressure to the man's wounds. Jenna had removed her headscarf, and he used it now in an almost futile effort to staunch the flow of blood.

The man was still – just barely – alive. His face was grey and ashen. He gave wet, strangled gasps, struggling to draw breath. Choking on his own life force as it poured out of his veins.

Still applying the pressure, Reeves turned to his nephew. "Dig through his belt pockets!"

Jared obeyed promptly. It took him only a moment of rifling through the Seeker's utility belt to produce the two items he knew his uncle needed. A tablet of No Pain and a miniature spray canister of Heal.

Reeves kept the headscarf pressed against the man's chest while he snatched the No Pain tablet with the other. He forced it in between the Seeker's teeth so it came to rest on the tongue, where it immediately began dissolving. The man's breathing instantly became more steady, though still labored by the bloody liquid collecting in his lungs.

There was a brief reflective flash as Reeves produced another object from his own belt. A knife.

They shared a brief look. They both knew there was only one way they would be able to do this.

Despite himself, Jared turned away. He was not a squeamish man by any means. But right now, he had no desire to watch his uncle perform improvised surgery in a moving vehicle.

He looked out the window, his nerves still taught and aware. The sight was almost unbelievable. Smoke rose not just from the remains of the Fifth Precinct, but from several other places far distant. Startled drivers were swerving their vehicles off the road, colliding with their fellow motorists in piles of wreckage. Even at the speed they were traveling he could hear the retort of gunfire outside from some place unseen.

In the blink of an eye, Los Angeles – quite literally the "City of Angels" for the past seven years - had suddenly become a warzone.


	18. Chapter 18

**Washington D.C.**

**June 13, 20_**

19:47 EST

Only hunters were truly alive. Sean Braden had known this all his life.

The assassin closed his eyes as he breathed in the fine, sweet mist of the _hashish _he had smuggled through the customs checkpoint at Washington Dulles, allowing the drug to fill his lungs and expand his thoughts. It came from a Palestinian supplier he had met while training in Lebanon with his comrades in the Irish Republican Army. Apart from the small portion he had kept for his own use, he would be selling it to a dealer in Washington D.C. A small bonus to top off the $1 million he would be receiving for his latest hit – the first $500,000 of which had just recently arrived by wire in the Swiss bank account he kept under an assumed name.

The sum was almost outrageously high in comparison to many he had accepted in the past. That had led him to ask questions he rarely bothered with. The buyer had been just reticent enough to let him know that of his three marks, one lived under CIA protection while another was a trained operative with a previous career as a Marine sniper.

Such information would have been enough to give many others in his profession second thoughts. But for Braden, it caused only excited anticipation. The thrill of the hunt with all its adrenaline and danger. The things that made a man alive.

Braden felt a vague mixture of pity and contempt for all those who went their entire lives without taking the life of another. Choosing to while their youth and vitality away in a comfortably decadent bourgeois existence. Braden himself was no longer a young man, but no one could say that his youth had been wasted. He had spent it gloriously, shedding the blood of a dozen enemies of the people and facing death every day as a soldier in the IRA.

In time, of course, he had parted ways with that organization as it drifted further into irrelevance with the coming of peace to Northern Ireland. He had also found in the meantime that, although he had joined them in a moment of idealism, he had little attachment to either Irish nationalism or the IRA's larger goal of World Socialism. The final achievement of either a united Ireland or the world proletarian revolution would have been insufferably boring to him. He had not fought for some misty, Elysian utopia. He had fought for the sheer joy of killing.

He flipped a page in the book that lay open beside him on the carpeted floor where he sat with both legs folded, Indian-style. An English translation of the Bhagavad Gita. Through the years, he had acquired a taste for the beauty of Indic verse, often reading it side by side with the poetry of Blake, Shelly, and Baudelaire. His eyes fell on a quote he had carefully underlined – the words of the goddess Shiva:

"If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst at once in the sky that would be like the splendor of the Mighty One – I am become Death, the shatterer of worlds."

Braden closed his eyes as he breathed in a fresh dose of the _hashish_. In his mind's eye, he could see himself rising through the astral planes. He could see the three Fates as they wove the destinies of the living. He took his place beside Atropos, the one who held the shears with which she cut the threads of men's lives. This time, she offered them to him with her right hand, while in the left she held the threads of the three men he had been sent to kill. Her hideous, death-like face was further marred by a fiendish smile, displaying rotted, decaying teeth.

He took the shears and the threads from her hands. He held them before his eyes, observing his reflection in the blades. He looked down at the threads in his hands.

Then in one swift motion he cut them both.

He emerged from his trance slowly as the effects of the _hashish _began to abate. He rose to his feet, infinitely refreshed by the experience. It was as if every cell in his body had been rejuvenated. Ready to hunt.

From his shirt pocket he produced two small photographs which he had been studying for the last several hours, memorizing every feature of the faces they contained. He held both over a lit incense candle, watching as the flame consumed them before drooping them onto a small metal plate to hold the ashes. The final step in the dark ritual he followed before every kill. He breathed in the smoke as the flame finally died.

In its own way, it was as intoxicating as _hashish_.

**Minnesota**

**June 13, 20_**

23:34 CST

His lungs were bursting. His heart on the verge of arrest. Still he kept running, all physical distractions enslaved to the two overriding imperatives of Survival and Escape.

May God forgive me.

It was the sole coherent thought Dr. Lincoln White allowed himself as he sped through the forest, fighting his way through the grass and brush.

What have I _done_?

Had he had the time or the luxury for grief, he could have wept. How could he have allowed himself to be so utterly deceived? Like his first ancestors in the Garden, he had been offered two manners of fruit: Life and Knowledge. And just as Adam had done before him, he had chosen Knowledge.

Now it was too late to repent. A nightmare was coming. And he had helped bring it here.

God have mercy!

The young doctor stumbled through a final tangle of branches into a large clearing. Before him stood a small cabin just large enough to comfortably hold three or four. He had rented it a year prior for recreational use during his rare periods of leave from Generis. They were fully aware of its existence, and he knew he could not stay here long. It may have been suicide even to come here first. But there was one last attempt he had to make, no matter what the cost.

He burst in through the cabin's unlocked screen door, desperately trying to slow his breathing and his heartbeat. He halted only briefly to place a hand over the vein near the juncture of his forearm and bicep, still throbbing from the injection they had given him. White imagined he could almost feel the microbes as they continued their invasion of his bloodstream, completely unopposed by an immune system helpless to stop them.

His eyes immediately fell on the landline phone hooked up to the wall in the kitchen area beside the sink. He made three quick strides forward, yanking the receiver of the hook and punching in a memorized number on the keypad. It was the most maddening experience of his life as he listened to the ring on the other end. "Pick up, Dylan. For the love of God, pick up!" He whispered the words desperately, though he knew no one could hear them. Ice-cold rivulets of sweat streamed down his forehead and his palms.

The ring finally terminated in Dylan Reeves' voice, speaking in a rehearsed monotone. "This is Dylan Reeves. Sorry I'm not available right now. Please leave a message." A robotic pseudo-female voice immediately followed. "Record your message at the tone. _Beep_."

With no other choice, White began speaking rapidly, struggling to keep his voice coherent. He prayed the connection was good enough for Dylan to make some sense of the message. In the midst of his rapid monologue, something outside suddenly caught his eye.

"O my God! They're here! They're here! They're going to kill –"

A massive blast of fire cut off the doctor's words. The entire cabin was engulfed in flame. From a nearby ledge overlooking the clearing, a figure in black paramilitary dress lowered the launcher which had released the incendiary missile. He rose to his feet beside an identically dressed companion who held a pair of binoculars to his eyes. They both observed the inferno silently as it spread from the cabin to the surrounding trees, beginning the gradual process that would shortly set the entire forest ablaze. They simply stood there for some time, the flame casting eerie shadows across their faces. In time, they would be contacting Locklin to let him now the target had been eliminated. The fires would leave no trace of the remains.

Fire. Such a primal, elemental force of nature. On that, properly kindled, could devour the world.

Pain. Agony.

These were the only two things of which he was aware. His body pushed him forward of its own accord. Blind and burning.

His face was on _fire!_

He ran forward through the conflagration that had overtaken the forest. Both his hands were engulfed in the same fire that was devouring the trees and growth around him. His head and face shown like a torch as the flames mercilessly engorged themselves upon his flesh.

Agony. Agony was everywhere.

Had Lincoln White opened his eyes, he might have seen the mass of wildlife that swarmed around him as it fled from the face of the fire. A doe urged her fawn on ahead of her, both of them leaping over any debris and detritus blocking their path. A black bear went almost beside them in a heavy, lumbering run, its fear causing it to ignore potential prey. A sea of squirrels, rabbits, mice, and other smaller denizens of the woods scampered ahead of the death that followed them. The night skies above were filled not only with smoke but with countless birds and fowl that had left behind their threatened nests.

His flaming body continued forward in its blind, instinctive run. He had a vague notion of where it took him. There was a memory of water…

He tripped over the bank of the river without knowing it was there. He was instantly submerged by the current.

Beneath the rushing water, he opened his mouth to scream once more as the liquid made contacted with his charred skin. The water poured into his lungs, and he suddenly became aware of a new danger.

Drowning.

A new strength suddenly came into his arms and legs as he desperately tried to kick himself toward the surface. But the water he had inhaled weighed down his body. He flailed about uselessly for approximately 30 seconds, feeling himself slip into an oxygen-deprived unconsciousness.

Then his right hand made contact with an object. A branch.

He gripped it tightly, taking hold of it with his left hand and hoisting himself upwards against the current. His broke the surface, and he vomited up at least half a pint of water.

He held onto the wooden outgrowth for as long as he could, still agonized and screaming against the pain of his burns. Finally, he released his grip, allowing the river to carry him upon its surface to a place he cared not where.

It was the horses' cries that woke him.

Jack Messner knew something was wrong the second he opened his eyes. The orange glow, the acrid smell, and the shadows flickering off the tent walls told him that.

He threw off his blanket and staggered to his feet, suddenly aware of a stifling, unnatural heat. A tight, sickening knot suddenly formed in the pit of his stomach. He recognized these signs.

In one swift motion, he stepped forward and flung open the front flap of the tent. For a single, terrifying moment, he found himself unable to breathe.

The entire forest surrounding the valley of their campsite had transformed into a wall of flame. The trees were completely consumed, and even now the roaring inferno continued to draw ever nearer to them as it spread through the dry grass of the clearing.

The blood drained from his face as he became aware of something else. The fires had completely encircled the valley. There was no way out.

Jack immediately turned to the sleeping form of his wife, Clara. He shook her awake, giving no care to be gentle.

"Wha-what? Jack? What's going on?" She blinked groggily at first, but the smell and the heat immediately jolted her fully awake.

He grabbed both blankets and threw them into her hands. "The woods are on fire. Take these and run for the creek. I'm gonna cut the horses loose."

Clara knew better than to protest. She took off, blankets in hand, to the creek that ran right by the campsite. Jack, grabbing his hunting knife, darted out to the trailer where the horses were tied behind the truck. Josie, the mare, reared up as he approached, her eyes wide with terror. Charger, the stallion, was yanking at the rope that kept him bound.

Jack quickly swiped the knife through both of their ropes, leaving them free to run for whatever safety they could find. If it was still possible, their instincts would ensure their survival. He took off for the creek where Clara awaited him, belly down in the water with one of the freshly-soaked blankets drawn over her. He splashed down beside her and pulled the other blanket she offered over his head and shoulders. They both watched in terrified fascination as the flames continued to advance, consuming everything in their path.

Over the next few hours, many things would be taking place. Local emergency crews, alerted to the fire's outbreak, would start a desperate, all-night effort to contain the blaze. Both Jack and Clara Messner would be found by those same crews once the fire had passed, both of them alive and unharmed. By a miraculous twist of fate, both their horses would survive as well.

Local news outlets and investigators would converge on the area, beginning the painstaking process of piecing together the origin of the fire. Ultimately, their results would prove inconclusive, and the case would be shelved. Dr. Lincoln White would remain unaccounted for, presumed dead both by the Generis Institute and the public at large.

But there were yet some things to occur before all of these had their end.

**Washington D.C.**

**June 13, 20_**

00:42 EST

It still felt strangely out of place to call the apartment home, though he had lived here almost ten years. If "live" could be the proper term for occupying a place in which he almost never spent any significant length of time. Reeves flicked on the single light switch as he stepped in through the door.

The furnishings of the one-bedroom unit were few. The plain, white wallpaper held no form of decoration. The living, dining, and kitchen area were really all one room, occupied only by a recliner, a wooden table with three chairs, and a small bookshelf and filing cabinet in the far corner. A medium-sized island counter divided off the small strip of linoleum tile of the kitchen zone from the carpeted floor that took up the rest of the unit's space.

On rare occasions, Dylan Reeves allowed himself to reflect on just how little of a life he had outside the Agency. Jennifer's family constituted his only remaining set of relatives. Though he maintained contact with them regularly, the demands of his job erected an impassable gulf. And apart from them, he had no other strictly human as opposed to professional relationships.

At the age of thirty-eight, he was still unmarried – knowing full well there was not a woman alive willing to share the kind of life he led. Unusually enough for the times, this also meant that he was still a virgin. Unlike many of those he had worked alongside throughout his life, he had always kept himself close from dalliances of any kind. To this day, many of his coworkers called him "The Monk", a nickname he had originally picked up from his time in the Marines.

In his private moments, he had to admit that his lifestyle had much in common with monasticism. He had almost no diversions or interests unconnected with his work. He found both history and science rewarding pursuits in their own right, but he inevitably found himself applying both to his own immediate professional concerns. His work and his mission consumed all else.

He had sometimes pondered what it could be like for him had he stepped back and embraced a normal existence with a wife and a family. Some aspects of that sort of life were difficult to comprehend. He could remember life with his sister and parents well enough. Jonathan and Natasha Reeves had shown great love to both their children, and their love for one another was never in doubt.

Yet there had been a dark side to it all. Both of them had been haunted by pasts they were desperate to escape. For Jonathan, it had been the utter hopelessness that had been his lot growing up on the reservation he had left behind as an adult. It had made him a driven man, desperate and anxious to ensure a future both for himself and for his family, and he had often failed to appreciate the simpler enjoyments of life.

Natasha's story had been far more grim. She had been born in St. Petersburg, still known at that time as Leningrad. She had been fortunate in many ways for the time, her father being an officer in the Red Army and his commission doing much to improve his family's circumstances. She had been old enough to remember the so-called Great Patriotic War as the German army swept through Russia. Her father had been stationed at the Murmansk port, helping to coordinate the distribution of wartime supplies received from the RAF and British Navy. His conduct during this time had earned him many decorations, among them the highly-coveted Order of Lenin. The entire family had shared his pride and prospered.

But in 1948, three years after the war's end, their entire world had come crashing down.

It was the year in which Stalin had begun his second purge, driven by an increasingly delusional paranoia that would end only with his death in 1953. His target this time was primarily the Soviet Jews.

Natasha's family had not been Jewish. But as part of his duties in Murmansk, her father had also provided assistance for the activities of the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee – an organization that had proved integral to the Soviet wartime propaganda effort but had now fallen out of favor with the rest of the so-called "rootless cosmopolitans".

The secret police had come to their home. They had placed her father under arrest. His contact with the British in Murmansk suddenly marked him an "English Spy."

His family had never seen him again. Three years later, a friend in the security services gave them word that he had died in a labor camp.

Reeves could remember how his mother described that day. Sixteen years old at the time, she had felt disbelief, then grief, then suddenly a blind, overpowering rage so great that she momentarily lost her senses. She had rampaged through her family's home, destroying things at random until she finally came to the portrait of Stalin displayed in her father's study. She had torn it down with her bare hands, ripping the canvas into several pieces before she was finally restrained.

For some time thereafter, she had been confined to an asylum. She was released less than a year later after the doctors were satisfied her sanity had returned. But she emerged a changed woman, carrying ever after a burning hatred for the land of her birth – the country that had turned on her father when he had given it nothing but loyalty.

The next several years of her life had been hard ones. Her father's arrest now meant that his wife were daughters were ostracized as the family of a traitor. They were barred from most areas of employment, and endured grinding poverty. But Natasha now carried an iron resolve that saw her through all that came. She labored unceasingly until she was finally given a rare opportunity to travel outside the USSR's borders to East Germany as part of an academic guest student program in Berlin. Almost upon her very arrival in the city, she immediately took her chance to escape to the Western sector. From there, she had requested political asylum, and was airlifted to West Germany, beginning an arduous journey that eventually ended with citizenship in the United States.

She had begun a new life after marrying Jonathan and giving birth to two children. But her hatred followed her across the sea. For a time, she refused to speak the Russian language, and consented to teach it to her newborn son only after her husband reasoned that the child could someday use it as a tool against her enemies.

The change of the years did nothing to abate her feelings. To this time, Reeves could still remember a day in 1986 when their family had assembled to watch the summit in Reykjavik between Reagan and Gorbachev. His mother had remained composed through the first part of the coverage. But she had erupted in a near-madness the moment the two leaders had exchanged hands.

She had shouted at the screen, as if President Reagan were somehow capable of hearing her across the thousand miles of sea. "You fool! What are you waiting for? Kill him! KILL HIM!"

Eventually, she had calmed down under the restraining influence of her husband and children. Such an incident did not occur again. But Reeves never forgot what he had seen in her eyes when she looked at Gorbachev. She had truly, sincerely wanted him to die. In her mind, he was just another one of the men who had killed her father.

At the very hour of her death, Natasha Abramova Reeves still had not made peace with her past. Reeves could remember standing over her as she lay on the hospital bed, dying of coronary heart disease. She had looked at him through weakened eyes, extracting from him a final promise.

"You must swear to me, my son. Swear that you will destroy them - _and_ _all their works_."

There had been no mistaking who she meant by "them."

It was that moment, ultimately, that had determined the course of his entire life thereafter, from his entry into the Marines to his career in the CIA. Almost all of it driven by a mission to fulfill a dying parent's wish.

For a moment, Reeves felt a profound weariness as he opened the door of the kitchen area's refrigerator. He had never felt the deeply personal hatred that drove his mother. And, therefore, he lived with a freedom she did not. But he had learned much on his own about the murderous system she had escaped, and for that reason he had accepted the burden she had placed upon his shoulders. He would continue the fight, struggling against all those like the ones who had destroyed his mother's life.

Only a complete victory over all forces of darkness could fulfill the oath he had taken. And he knew that would never come.

From the refrigerator, he produced a bottle of Mortlach Scotch, part of which he poured into a small glass obtained from a nearby cupboard. He took a sip of the liquid, savoring the pleasant burning sensation as it traveled down his throat.

Many would have found this indulgence strange in light of his other abstinences. In a way, it was an act of independence from his father, whose childhood experiences had made him an absolute teetotaler. Reeves kept his intake of the substance carefully controlled, however, and had never once allowed himself the experience of drunkenness.

Replacing the bottle in the refrigerator and closing the door, he carried the glass with him as he made his way to the recliner in the living area. Offhandedly, he pressed a button on his phone's answering machine, the blinking light indicating a missed call. He never gave out his mobile number to anyone.

He was lifting the glass to his lips a second time when the message began playing.

"_Dylan…[_static_]…Smerdyakov…[_static_]… faction in the government…[_static_]…they know about the invasion…[_static_]…known since…[_static_]…allowing it to take place…[_static_]…make us easier to control…[_static_]…let them take control…[_static_]…then THEY will control THEM…[_static_]…It's started...[_static_]…Los Angeles…[_static_]…beginning and the end…[_static_]…Dylan…run. Run while you still can!...[_static_]…It's not just us…[_static_]…whole world…[_static_]…Don't trust…O my God! They're here!...[_static_]…going to kill -"_

The words were suddenly cut off by the sound of a massive blast that gave way to a rush of flame. The cryptic, garbled message abruptly terminated in a sustained line of static

Dylan Reeves remained frozen where he stood, his eyes glued to his phone. He gave no reaction as the glass of Scotch slipped from his fingers and shattered against the floor at his feet.

**Las Vegas, Nevada**

**June 14, 20_**

2:00 MST

The opening segment began with a round of bumper music. An announcer's voice came next.

"And now, broadcasting from a hidden bunker somewhere deep in the bowels of Las Vegas, it's ROOOOOOOOOCK HELLERRRRRRRRRRRR!"

There was the pre-recorded sound of a woman's shriek. That provided the cue for the man, himself, seated in his Las Vegas studio with headphones and microphone at the ready.

"Greetings to all the rest of you sick, twisted freaks, kooks, nuts, and oddballs tuning in to-night from sea to shining sea, let's go right to our phones, we have Roger on the line tonight with some breaking news on the chemtrail phenomenon. Hello, Roger, how ya do'in?"

Rock Heller, nationally syndicated late night talk show host and/or shock jock heared by 5 million people across the United States, spent the next hour conducting a broadcast covering topics that ranged the gamut from chemtrails, crop circles, black helicopters, UFOs, Bigfoot, and ghosts.

The first caller, Robert, identified himself as an Air Traffic Controller. He proceeded to proclaim upon his own word and that of several other controllers across the country that the U.S. government was using high-flying jet aircraft for the testing of chemical weapons. The next caller claimed to be the reincarnation of Leonardo Da Vinci. The last that hour described in detail how he had participated in a secret government-funded project to construct a time machine.

The first hour concluded with an extended commercial break. Heller took the opportunity to remove his headphones and take a sizeable swig from the thermos of Espresso coffee on his desk. He would not have traded his career for anything, but certain things were required to make it through the late nights.

Wiping off his mustache and goatee, he quickly replaced his headphones as the countdown neared zero on the clock indicating his on air/off air status.

The second hour began much as the first, with the bumper music, recorded scream, and rapid-fire greeting. The first caller described his recent sighting of a leprechaun in his back yard. Another detailed his encounter with black helicopters hovering over the sight of a crop circle on his property.

Towards the end of the second hour (and the end of the show itself), Heller received one last caller. This one from a small town in Illinois that he had never heard of.

"Our last call this evening, we have Kevin calling in from Gridley, IL with a somewhat disturbing take on the U.N.-sponsored medical initiative currently gaining ground in healthcare systems around the world. Hello, Kevin, how ya do'in tonight?"

Inwardly, Heller smirked. _This oughta be good._

"_Hello, Rock, am I on the air?" _A young male voice came over the line.

"You certainly are, Kevin. My screener tells me you have something to tell us about the Geneva Initiative, is that right?"

"_Yes I do, Rock. These 'Universal Treatment Parameters' they keep talking about are a fraud. The people they give the treatments to are being _lobotomized."

Despite himself, Heller had to blink twice.

"Lobotomized? What makes you say that, Kevin?"

"_Listen, Rock, I know what I'm talking about. No one in the government or the medical establishment is willing to tell the public what exactly these treatments really are. The only way anyone can find out is to sign non-disclosure forms and receive the training. It's all supposedly 'proprietary information' owned by some company in Switzerland no one even heard of a few years ago. I can tell you right now, that's a load of manure. It's because no one who goes through these treatments comes out the same person. And that goes both for the patients _and_ for the doctors who receive the training." _

"Okay, well what exactly do you mean by 'not the same person'?"

"_I'm talking about full-scale 180 degrees personality change. Even more than that. I have a cousin who worked in the Nigerian Peace Corps two years ago. This was when the Initiative was just getting started in all those Third World countries before our government signed on to it. The World Health Organization opened up a treatment center in the village where she was working. She had a friend in the Corps who decided to sign on for the training. When she got back from it, everything about her had changed; her personality, her temperament, even her interests and hobbies. It was like she had some kind of glorified born-again conversion experience._

"_But the villagers they'd been working with changed even more. Just a few weeks earlier, these people had been slaughtering each other's children. But when they came out from the treatment, they embraced each other like life-long friends. It was like the entire place had turned into Mayberry. It was freakish. My cousin caught the next plane out of there before anyone tried to convince her to take the training. _

"_It's the same story after the Initiative came to this country. All you have to do is look around you, Rock. Check the news lately – it's turning into nothing but a bunch of inspiring human interest stories. The crime rate in some cities is now at _zero_. We've got junkies, addicts, and deviants lining up en masse to turn themselves in at hospitals and prisons. Everywhere they're using these treatments it's the same story." _

Heller paused before he responded. A somewhat puzzled look appeared on his face.

"O-kaaay, I think I follow what you're saying here, but… isn't all that a _good_ thing?"

"_Wake up, Rock! Someone – maybe it's our government, maybe it's the UN – is deliberately messing with these people's minds. They're turning us all into a bunch of good little puppets that'll be easier for them to control! I say this to everyone out there who may be listening: Wake Up. Start pulling your kids out of school. Stay as far away as you can from hospitals. If you got guns, if you got ammo, start stockpiling. They'll be coming for you next._"

_Oh God. Another one of those whackjob militia types. _Heller allowed a wide variety of far-out views to be voiced on his station, but he knew exactly where to draw the line. Mercifully, the second hour was just expiring. He quickly followed up with his closing statement.

"This concludes the Rock Heller program. Until next time – keep watching the skies!"

**Arizona**

**June 14, 20_**

4:00 MS

Jeb Stryder momentarily pondered what he had just heard as he switched off the radio for the evening. Lobotomies? It sounded far-fetched. And yet so inherently plausible. He had noticed the change in tone on the news lately…

He closed his eyes, leaning back slightly in the recliner where he sat in his pajamas and bath robe. Right now, it was time for a good night's sleep. But he would go back to the caves again tomorrow night to continue the work. It never hurt to be prepared…


	19. Chapter 19

**Black Hills, South Dakota**

**October 25, 20_**

6:00 CST

The two vehicles had been traveling for several hours through the forest. Those in the van bringing up the rear were now quite certain the length of their trip was due not to the distance but the deliberate intention of their guides in the forward car to disorient them as much as possible.

"They've been taking us around in circles _forever_!" Jamie voiced through gritted teeth what was truly on everyone else's mind. "What's the point of all this? They know who we are."

Jeb gripped his fingers slightly tighter around the steering wheel. His tone was uncommonly short. "Quit the grip'in, Kid. You know the reason as much as I do." He gave a brief glance towards the back, where Fords sat conspicuously unarmed alongside Doc, who cradled an AR-15. The Healer shifted his posture self-consciously.

"It's still so stupid. They've got one of their own." It was a rare occurrence for Jamie to argue with his uncle, but the effects of the drawn-out monotony were beginning to take their toll.

"You've been alive long enough to know that 'stupid' is relative, Kid. Now pipe down before I nail your tongue to your nose. I'm go'in out of my mind as it is."

Grudgingly, Jamie complied, though he continued to stare fixedly at the car in front of them and caress his rifle as if it he wished more than anything to use it. Jeb watched him out of the corner of his eye as he continued to drive. The older man gave a knowing snort under his breath. _Puberty. Thank God I finished it years ago. _

The rendezvous in Denver had been tense at first. The last thing the men who met them were expecting was a fully party of four men, a woman, and two children in place of the two at most they had been expecting as scheduled. It had taken an especially detailed explanation on Jeb's part when they realized that Fords was a soul. And it had been difficult at first to make them fully believe the account of what had taken place in Arizona the last few days. Ultimately, the men from Nate's group had agreed to escort them back to their own base in the Black Hills. But they had imposed strict conditions for the service, the last of which was readily apparent to the point of irritation.

The drive continued on for several more minutes. Then the brake lights of the forward vehicle suddenly lit up bright red. A signal for them to stop.

"Finally." Jeb and Jamie both glanced at each other with a start at having muttered the exact same phrase under their breaths. Jeb pursed his lips and yanked the keys from the ignition as he pushed open the driver's door. "Stay put. This is where it gets prickly."

The loose dirt and gravel crunched beneath his boots as he made forward to the join their two escorts, Blake and Tom, who had exited their own vehicle and were conversing animatedly with a pair of armed sentries illuminated by the still active headlights of their car. The conversation was cut short when the two other men caught sight of Jeb, and he did not fail to notice their weapons rise at his approach. A part of him briefly regretting leaving his shotgun in the van, but he immediately put that thought away.

"Halt. Identify yourself." The command was spoken with military bluntness. Apparently Blake and Tom's introduction had only gone so far.

"I'm Jeb Stryder from Arizona. There are thirteen of us altogether. The rest headed off for Los Angeles."

A perplexed look appeared on the face of the man who had spoken. "I thought your group had thirty-seven."

"It _did_." A dark shadow passed over Jeb's face, its meaning unmistakable.

"Seekers?"

"No. Someone worse. The others weren't taken. They were _slaughtered_."

There was an extended period of significant silence, the only reaction being the expressions on the guards' speechless faces.

"What are you talking about? _Who _slaughtered them?"

"We don't quite know yet. We have a few hints, but that'll take a whole lot more time to explain than we have out here. And I'm pretty sure Nate's gonna want to hear this."

The sentry studied him momentarily with narrowed eyes. He looked as though he was about to question him further. But he unexpectedly gave way. "Fair enough. How many in the van with you right now?"

"There's me, my nephew, Jamie, Doc, Lucinda, and her two kids. But have a guest with us too."

"A guest?"

Jeb pointed two fingers directly at his own eyes, his meaning unmistakable. He quickly spoke again before the other man could open his mouth.

"He's unarmed, and we're the ones with the weapons. Not that he's inclined to try anything. He's a Healer, not a Seeker. And besides that, he owes us. I saved his life."

The sentry simply stared at him silently for several seconds more, seeming to weigh his decision. He finally gave a reluctant nod.

"Fine. You can bring everyone in. But keep that one under guard." The man reached into his pocket to produce a thick wad of cloth which he held out in Jeb's direction. "And blindfolded."

Jeb gave a slight nod of acceptance. "Fair enough."

The first thing Jamie noticed about this other group's residence was that it was not a cave but rather a hollowed-out bunker. The passage they made their way through consisted of concrete rather than stone. He somewhat ruefully took it as yet another sign of just how much more sophisticated Nate and his group had been than their own. Jeb had selected a hideout that Nature had prepared for him ready-made. Nate had carved his right out of the earth and started building.

The two sentries, now identified as Evan and Blake, led the way ahead as the combined party made their way deeper into the complex. Though still large, it was noticeably smaller and more thinly populated than the caverns they had left behind in Arizona. Jamie felt an involuntary tightening of his stomach before he pushed the memory away.

Up head, Evan had finally brought them to their intended destination.

"Dad?"

Nate raised his head from a pile of maps and news reports he had been studying at his desk. His expression was neutral. "What is it, Son?"

"We got company." Evan gave a slight motion of his head over his left shoulder. As if on cue, Jeb suddenly appeared, stepping around him so he faced Nate directly. Jamie came in beside him.

"Jeb Stryder. I take it you're Nate Montrose."

"That's right." Nate rose from his desk chair, his eyes suddenly perplexed and questioning. "What happened?" He asked the question immediately. Both their groups had agreed they would meet only at rendezvous points and that their leaders would never see each other face to face. The fact that this rule of security was now being broken could only mean something was gravely wrong.

Jeb's expression became infinitely sober. He removed his broad-rimmed hat and ran his fingers through the thinning gray hair on his scalp.

"It's really long and really sad."

It was Blake who led on the rest of the group to the complex's infirmary, the most logical destination given the circumstances of their arrival. Doc followed directly behind him, with Fords, Lucinda, and her three children bringing up the rear. Somewhat more relaxed in their presence than he had been upon the initial meeting, Blake made a degree of conversation.

"You guys should hit it off pretty good with Burns." He gave a nod in the direction of both Doc and Fords. "God knows he can use the help these days. You guys aren't the first new arrivals we've had."

Doc looked up sharply, his expression alarmed. "You've had others?" A disturbing image suddenly arose in his mind. Human survivors systematically hunted down all across the continent by the same merciless pursuers.

"Just one, actually. We found him the other night. Or maybe _he _found _us _depending on how you look at it. It was almost freakish. It's the middle of the night, we're on guard duty, and this guy comes speeding out of nowhere like he has demons on his tail. Then he just collapsed. I don't think he even heard us when we yelled at him. He's human, that much is obvious. But we don't have the slightest idea where he came from or how long he'd been running. Or how he was even able to run at all with the shape he was in. He was so emaciated he must not have eaten in weeks. But that's not the half of it. When we took him to Burns, we all got a good look at his face – or what was left of it. It was like it had been set on fire and then left to burn."

Doc listened intently, the alarm on his face replaced by perplexed fascination. "Where is he right now?"

"Burns has been keeping an eye on him since. He's been mostly comatose except for one episode a few hours after we brought him in. I don't know what set it off, but the guy went so crazy we had to hold him down and drug him."

Doc may have been on the verge of further questioning. But that was precluded by their entry into the infirmary itself.

In contrast to the general trend of the rest of the complex, this room was actually slightly larger than the one Doc remembered using in Arizona. It also appeared to be one of the few sections of this place whose existence had come about as much through natural as artificial means. The farther portion of the room gave way from concrete and steel to a partial stone cave formation, against which various items had been stacked.

The nearer portion was furnished much as Doc's own workspace had been, with several metal examination tables lined with surgical tools. There was also a shelved cabinet stored with various medicinal and chemical substances. Significantly, he saw that few, if any, of these were of human origin.

There were also two other occupants in the room. One of them they saw only at second glance, laying on his back across a cot at the far side of the room near the cave wall. The man lay largely still, but there were visible muscular tremors taking place all over his body. His features were largely obscured in the dim light.

The other man in the room looked up from the work desk as they entered. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties with reddish-orange hair atop a somewhat boyishly freckled face with sky-blue eyes. Standing up at his full height, Doc saw that he was easily six-foot-four. The dimmed light of the room briefly danced across his eyes, revealing a luminous reflection.

It was Fords who was transfixed by the sight, Doc having long been accustomed to the idea of a soul among humans. The man himself blinked and started upon catching sight of someone instantly recognizable as a fellow Healer.

Blake gave a brief nod in the man's direction. "We have some new arrivals with us, Burns. This one goes by 'Doc', and this is – "

"Tom?"

A weak, haggard voice suddenly carried from the far corner of the room. Everyone turned as one towards the source.

The figure on the cot was suddenly sitting upright, staring straight at Fords. For the first time since anyone had seen him, his eyes carried perfect awareness. And the newcomers now had a perfect view of his face.

Doc fought an instinctive urge to draw back at the sight of the burned, twisted features. But Fords looked on with an astonished recognition.

"Link?"

**Los Angeles, California**

**October 25, 20_**

8:37 PST

"Look out!" Wanda saw the two black vehicles pull out to cut them off a millisecond before she heard Ian's shout. She reacted just fast enough.

The van swerved abruptly to the right just short of the two black Suburbans blocking its path to the C St Exit. Enough to just barely avoid a collision. But not enough to evade the gunfire that erupted from both vehicles' open windows.

The hail of bullets decimated the glass, raining shards of it on all the van's occupants, who immediately ducked to their seats. Including Wanda.

There was a massive jolt which sent a shockwave through the entire vehicle before its movement ceased completely. Wanda looked up from her crouch in the driver's seat for a visual. It took less than a second to confirm that the entire hood was smashed in against the concrete side barrier.

Both Jared and his uncle reacted immediately, springing upward from their seats to release a blast of returning fire through what was left of the van's windows. From her own vantage point, Wanda could clearly see several of the gunmen from the two Suburbans slump lifelessly forwards.

"Everybody out!" Reeves shouted the command just as he took out one of the hostile vehicles' drivers. No one questioned him. Ian reached across the driver's side to snap open Wanda's seatbelt even as he yanked out his own. Together, the vehicle's occupants began to exit out the right side doors under cover of Jared and Reeves' returning fire. Ian shielded Wanda with his body as best he could as he pulled her across the cab and out the front passenger side. Melanie and Jenna together lifted the wounded Seeker out of their own door as they scrambled out. Reeves' improvised surgery had been quick and effective; all the bullet fragments were now extracted, and the man's injuries were fully healed. But he was still severely weakened from blood loss and could not move unaided.

"Fall back! Fall back!" Reeves continued firing as he motioned to the others to retreat. Just beyond the side barrier, there was a hill leading down to John S Gibson Boulevard. Their totaled van provided a cover of sorts for them as they slipped over and beneath the concrete and bolted down the grassy slope among the trees. Reeves and Jared let out several more shots before they followed the others.

They so none too soon. The shockwave nearly toppled everyone from their feet as the van exploded in a fiery, gasoline-fueled conflagration. One of the surviving gunmen had apparently chosen just that moment to lob a grenade.

"Move! Move!" Reeves did not allow them any time to absorb their shock. The group obediently resumed their pace, heading straight towards the chain link fence separating them from the adjoining boulevard.

Their fortune so far today had left much to be desired. So it was no surprise, and perfectly in accord with current trends, that another Seeker vehicle just happened to be cruising down Gibson Boulevard just as they came down the slope. Nor was it unexpected that the Seeker immediately stopped his vehicle upon sight of both the explosion and the armed band heading down the hill towards him. Or that both he and his partner leapt out the passenger side of their squad car with guns drawn.

"Stop or we'll shoot!"

If several more seconds had passed, they might have complied with that command. But as it was, the Seeker barely had time to finish his sentence. The last he would ever speak.

At first, the gunshot that impacted his chest seemed to come from their pursuers at the top of the hill. But then three dark figures suddenly came out of nowhere from the north, moving impossibly fast as they raked both the Seekers and their vehicle with a deadly stream of bullets. The one who had shouted out was the first to go down. The other managed to get off a few shots of his own before one of the gunmen physically leapt on top of him.

What happened next was enough to make everyone present doubt their eyes. The man bared his teeth and clamped his mouth around the Seeker's neck.

At other times, it would have made many in the group draw back in horrified disgust. But at this time no one had time for revulsion.

Reeves was the first to react, his actions almost completely automatic. His rifle rose almost of its own accord, blasting off a round that immediately severed the attacker's spine. In a swift motion he brought the weapon to bear against the man's two accomplices.

But there was now only empty space where they had previously been standing. In a blur of speed and acrobatics, one of them had cleared the chain-link fence, his trajectory taking him straight to Jared's position. The younger man had just a split second to drop him with a blast to the chest.

He should not have risen after that shot. But in defiance of all reality, the man jumped off the ground where he had fallen, roaring like an enraged beast. He charged straight towards them as if suicidal, completely unarmed.

Jenna and Melanie chose that moment to join the fight. They fired as one, the man's body jerking and spasming as their bullets struck him again and again. But all they did was make him change the route of his approach. He sped out to the side, trying to approach them now from a more circular route as he evaded their fire.

The rest of their attackers did not remain idle. Reeves suddenly heard the retort of additional fire from over the hill. There were still survivors from the two Suburbans. He snapped around, letting off several more shots towards the five men making their way down the hill past the van's flaming wreckage.

Five? There had been only eight at most between the two vans. He had shot six of them.

He suddenly saw that these five moved with the same unnatural speed and endurance as the other three that had attacked the Seekers. Two of them merely jerked and scattered to the side upon receiving a direct hit from this weapon. The rest opened fire with their own.

Only his training saved him as he somersaulted out of the way of their bullets, letting off some other shots of his own, two of which were also direct hits with the same result.

Two others in the group were not so fortunate. Wanda suddenly cried out and grabbed her shoulder, dropping to the ground with blood spurting from an open wound. Jared took one round to his leg but kept on firing madly all around him, keeping their swarming enemies at bay.

Ian, his face a sudden mask of fury, rose up beyond any cover, firing his rifle again and again as he took up a position back to back with Jenna. They stood over both Wanda and the Seeker they had brought with them, acting out in a pitiful attempt to defend them. Melanie fired in two directions at once, standing erect with a pistol in each hand.

Valiance to the contrary, Reeves trained mind instantly saw that the fight belonged to their opponents. They were outnumbered, exposed, and surrounded.

But it was their attackers who sacrificed the victory.

Seeming to abandon all forms of either tactics or craft, the gunman suddenly charged them as one body, some of them even dropping their weapons as if they no more than a hindrance.

This time, the defenders' shots proved far more true. Melanie forced the barrel of her gun through the mouth of one and pulled the trigger as he leaped upon her. Jenna and Ian got off direct shot to the foreheads of two others. His rifle knocked to the side, Jared pulled another to the ground in a grappling wrestle.

The other four came at Reeves, as if regarding him by as by far the most worthy target. Two fell immediately as the close range allowed him a headshot. The others were upon him before he could fire again. But here his hand-to-hand combat training took over. The men were knocked back just far enough for two more well-placed shots from Ian and Jenna.

Jared's opponent was the last to fall. In a final feat of adrenaline-fueled strength, he seized the man's head and dashed it down against the cement of the walkway that adjoined the fence. The attacker's movements abruptly ceased.

The scene around them did not quite die down to silence. There was still the sound of distant gunfire. The rumbling of explosive discharge. But for them the fight was over – for a time at least. Reeves holstered his handgun, taking stock of their party. Ian knelt down by Wanda, who was now sitting upright with her hand on her shoulder in a position of obvious pain. Melanie and Jenna seemed mostly uninjured.

Jared, despite the round he had taken to his leg, had limped forward through a large, gaping hole that had been torn through the chain-link fence by a piece of flying debris when their van exploded. He stepped over the inert body of one of the Seekers, intent on a slight movement he had detected just behind the squad car.

He stopped as soon as the source came fully into his sight.

The gunman who had attacked the second Seeker lay prone on his back beside his victim's body. Still fully alive and conscious, his breath came out in wet, shallow rasps. Blood flowed from the wound at which, below which nothing moved. Reeves' bullet had rendered him a quadriplegic in his last moments of life.

With an effort, the man craned his neck to look Jared directly in the face. Straight into the ray of sunlight that bounced off his reflective eyes.

Jared froze. His mind suddenly unable to process the image. It was impossible. An illusion. It could not be.

And yet it was.

The man – no, the _soul_ – stared back at him. Reddened foam gathered at the edges of his mouth as he choked on a mixture of blood and saliva. The reflection passed, and Jared could now see that his eyes were consumed by seemed an indescribable pain.

"_Kill… me." _The strained whisper was barely audible through his lips. His eyes remained locked on Jared's own. Begging, pleading him for an ultimate mercy.

Jared closed his eyes and turned away. His right hand, newly re-armed with his Beretta, rose until it aligned itself with the man's face at a meter's range. The trigger was pulled.

With a single blast, the man's suffering was at an end. There was the clink of a shell as it struck the cement.

Jared looked back, but did not bother to observe his target's body. He knew the man was dead. His eyes instead traveled to the body of the Seeker that lay dead beside him. It turned out that it was the initial barrage of bullets that had killed him rather than the bite to his throat. However animalistic the attacker's strength had appeared, his teeth had just barely broken the skin. For some reason that made him feel better.

"Jared." He turned around to the sound of his uncle's voice. He had not even felt the hand Reeves had laid upon his shoulder.

"He was one of them."

Reeves' face was briefly disturbed by a look of confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"The other ones. Check their eyes." Jared motioned violently toward the other dead bodies of their assailants.

For a moment, the other members of the group simply stood there with perplexed looks on their faces. But the meaning of his statement dawned immediately on Jenna. She stooped beside the nearest body, prying open the eyelids with the fingers of her left hand. With her right, she produced a small penlight which she shined directly into the eye.

She gave a sudden sharp intake of breath and jerked backwards as if burned. The look of disbelieving denial in her eyes confirmed to the others what she had seen. Scrambling like a woman possessed, she repeated the procedure with all eight of the corpses, making her way even to the man Jared had shot.

It provided the final confirmation of the fact she was trying so desperately to deny. She rose slowly to her feet, her posture liquid and expression numb. She looked straight at Jared.

He stared back to her, his breathing ragged and his sweat droplets mixed with the blood from numerous cuts and scratches incurred during his struggle. Despite his own shaken demeanor, he managed to crack a joke of sorts.

"Didn't know you guys were into bath salts."

The vehicle they had commandeered turned out to have less than a quarter tank of gas remaining, which forced them to stop in Los Alamitos. The distance was not quite as far as they would have desired, but they found that it was well away from the center of the chaos that had suddenly enveloped Los Angeles.

Initially, they had intended to take the squad car left behind by the two perished Seekers. It had been Jenna who vetoed that plan.

"No. We can't take that vehicle. It has a tracking device. All of them do." She had reached down into the pocket of one of the dead attackers, pulling out a smartphone with an active mobile app displayed on the screen. It was a GPS-style map of the city that showed multi-colored blinking dots at various locations.

"They're linked to this. It's distributed to all the city residents so they can keep track of available emergency services. Whoever – _whatever_ – this people are, they're going after Seekers. If there are more of them, they'll zero in on our position in no time."

That had been enough to convince the rest of them, and they had located an abandoned minivan after a few brief minutes' search.

As they replenished the vehicle's fuel supply at a filling station in Los Alamitos, they had noticed a large crowd gathered inside the station building, their eyes glued to a large-screen TV above the checkout counter. They knew immediately what it had to signify. Theirs had not been the only vehicle trying to escape what was taking place in Los Angeles.

Jared, Reeves, and Jenna had stayed outside to guard the van while Melanie, Ian, and Wanda - freshly healed from her shoulder wound - went inside to observe the news coverage.

What they saw was unimaginable. They listened in the same rapt, stunned silence of the rest of the crowd as obviously terrified newscasters described impossible events taking place not just in Los Angeles, but in Las Vegas, Houston, Miami, Boston, New York, and Washington D.C.. They saw images of the White House and Capitol, parts of them smoldering with fire and enveloped in smoke. Unidentified assailants taking and executing hostages at the New York Stock Exchange, the centers of the national power grid, and the headquarters of various public utilities. Bombs detonated on the bridges connecting Manhattan to the larger New York metropolitan area, effectively isolating the island. Reports of seemingly random and yet obviously coordinated attacks on local Seeker forces.

But the climax to this unfolding drama of insanity came only when the news station switched its primary live coverage to Washington D.C., on the front lawn of the White House.

An assembled force of black-clad gunmen stood on the North Lawn, the dead bodies of various slain Seekers deliberately piled in front of them in a macabre display of power. Three of them stood on the steps leading to the entrance of the Executive Residence. The one in the middle, who carried an air of command, stepped forward. He began to speak into a head-mounted microphone, his voice booming through an unseen system of loudspeakers, carried to every corner of the world by the observing cameras.

"_Assembled souls of Earth, hear us and take heed. A new age has dawned this day. For those you now see before you are they which have come out from your_ _midst_." The man lifted a penlight from his pocket, his companions doing the same upon his signal. As one, they shined the devices straight into their own eyes, illuminating them in an eerie display of reflective light that left no doubt as to their nature.

There were disbelieving gasps all around them in the station, the other residents in no way prepared for what Ian, Melanie, and Wanda already knew.

"_Know now that at this very moment the security precincts, infrastructure, and Reckoners of seven cities across this continent lie in our power. In Washington, New York, Boston, Miami, Houston, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles there are men that stand ready as you see here. Among each of these cohorts, there are those prepared to sacrifice their very lives if you so force us_." The leader gestured to one of the men at his side. Unlike the rest of the company, this man was cloaked in a heavy, black trench coat. He immediately opened it from both sides, revealing a bulky, wired assembly covered with cylindrical canisters.

A vest bomb.

"_This man is one of several we have placed throughout this city and all the seven. On his person, he carries a fully-primed thermonuclear device specifically designed to maximize radioactive fallout by means of a cobalt jacket. The detonator for this device lies not within our hands but those of the Power to which we answer. A Power that even now observes these events which have unfolded by its command and will not hesitate to act upon the first sign of resistance - be it from the greater body of the souls or the Order among us who call themselves the Seekers._

"_In your eyes we may seem as traitors, kin-slayers, and apostates. But we hold in our hands both our destiny and yours. We take our actions today by right of evolution over stasis, of enlightenment over darkness and vitality over stagnation. We are Vanguard, and our followers are Legion. We are the future. And _all_ of you shall join us._

"_For this time, our pronouncements are concluded. Return to your homes and await the morrow. In the days ahead, you shall receive further knowledge of our purpose. Your obedience will ensure your lives_."

His speech seemingly concluded, the man withdrew back within the doors of the Executive Residence, followed by his two companions. The rest of the force largely remained in place, though some of them began to pick up and carry the bodies of the Seekers that had been stacked at their feet. These they deposited in a single stacked pile just adjacent to the North Lawn's fountain. Several others stepped forward with large cans of liquid which they emptied promptly emptied on the stacked corpses. One final gunman came into view, carrying a large hose-like device connected to a large container strapped to his back.

It was Ian who immediately recognized it as a flamethrower.

There was a burst of fire from the nozzle which quickly enveloped the pile of bodies, fueled by the gasoline with which they had been soaked. The impromptu conflagration rose several feet in the air, producing black acrid smoke. Those who had kindled it gathered around in an eerie vigil, as if they offered sacrifice to some dark pagan god of old.

While Ian's disbelief was manifest, Melanie and Wanda watched the unfolding scene with faces identically white. For Wanda it was as if her entire reality had been turned upside down and backwards. What she was seeing had never happened. It _could not_ happen. And yet she saw it with her own eyes. Her kind, her people - killing their own.

But it was arguably Melanie who was the more severely disturbed. Her ears were still filled with the words of the man who had spoken. She remembered a time in her early teens when she and a group of friends had snuck a DVD of _The Exorcist_ into a sleepover at a parent's house and stayed up late to watch it. She had not slept soundly for weeks thereafter, every dream filled with images of that demon-possessed girl with the unnatural, rumbling voice.

He had sounded _just like her!_

**Korea**

**October 25, 20_**

12:00 KTZ

The first thing he became aware of was a splitting headache. He groaned slightly as he cracked the weighted lids of his eyes. He closed them just as quickly against the dim but still blinding light.

Groggily, Kyle O'Shea sat up on the small bench structure on which he had apparently been lying for some time. He leaned forward, placing his head in his hands as he fought to get a handle on the pounding behind his eyeballs.

The last few hours were a blur. His last clear memory was of the caves. Striking out at black-clad attacker…

After that, it was confused bits and pieces. Images of a darkened room, a needle in the arm. A bright light and questioning voices… Then everything ceased.

He raised his head and squinted, his eyes still sensitive but better adjusted now to the light. His surroundings were a small, windowless steel-gray room roughly six feet by eight. A musty yet sterile odor hung over it. He instantly recognized it as a cell. The only furnishings consisted of the bench-cot on which he sat along with a sink and a fully exposed toilet. Directly across from him there was a large iron door obviously meant to be opened only from the outside. He could tell just by looking that it was locked. He also noticed, claustrophobically, that the door, like the rest of the cell, held no window or opening of any kind.

He was completely enclosed.

Kyle consciously slowed down his breathing, waiting for his heartbeat to follow, forbidding himself to panic. Several years living in an underground cavern had done much to alleviate his instinctive fears of entrapment. But this was enough to disturb an agoraphobe.

He stood up from the bench, instantly regretted it, and caught himself against the back wall until the dots cleared from his eyes. His dizziness gone, he noticed for the first time that he was no longer wearing his own clothing. A gray, one-piece jumpsuit rendered his body the same metallic color as the walls. Someone had stripped and redressed him before depositing him in this place. He felt profoundly violated.

Where _was _he?!

From the enclosed quarters of a darkened control room, a pair of curious yet unsympathetic eyes observed the prisoner as he began pacing furiously about his cell and yelling out loud. The man they belonged to regarded his captive with the clinical detachment one would reserve for zoological specimens and laboratory animals.

The shadowy figure kept his shark-like orbs fixed upon the screen as he voiced a question to the shorter man that stood off to the side.

"How much did he tell you about the girl when he was under the serum?"

Jung answered his superior's question with prompt exactness, though inwardly he suppressed an instinctively feeling of resentment at the power this man wielded over him. For all their common goals and ideals, the fact remained that James Locklin was an American. Part of a nation and a government he had been trained from birth to hate.

"His statements were not as lucid as would have been desired. At times, they were contradictory. He would refer to her by two different names. From our own examinations, we confirmed the presence of one of the life-forms in her body. It seems he knew her from before this occurred, and that she was someone very close to him."

Locklin raised a single eyebrow without turning around. "From what you told me of your first encounter, it would seem that she continues to be. And the girl herself?"

Jung shifted slightly on his feet. "We administered a reduced dose of the serum to account for her smaller height and weight. It did not prove as effective as we would have wished. She would only tell us her name and that of her host."

The corner of Locklin's mouth turned upwards in a faint gesture of amusement. "Resistance. That _is _of interest coming from her kind. Could the host itself be countering occupation?"

Jung shook his head. "The cerebral scan confirmed permanent alteration of the neural structure. The brain is no longer capable of supporting consciousness on its own. We must therefore conclude death of the original personality." He suppressed another wave of irritation. There was little point to any of this. His team had gained all information of value during the interrogation they had conducted in back in the United States. It had been Locklin who had made the call to bring the prisoners to Korea for observation. Apparently, he was deeply intrigued by the concept of an attachment forming between a human and one of the newcomers.

Though he was capable of neither mercy nor sympathy, Jung was not given to deliberate cruelty. He had always regarded such things as a useless distraction. Locklin was a different man altogether. He derived an almost sensual pleasure from the infliction of suffering for its own sake, regardless of whether it offered him any kind of tangible gain. Royek allowed him such indulgences because they made him pliable and easy to control. Once the Endeavour was complete, and the Center no longer required his services, he could be removed. But until then, his whims had to be satisfied.

Locklin continued to silently observe the prisoner's antics for several seconds more, thoughts and theories forming in his mind. "Jung…"

"Yes?"

"Go to the girl's cell. I would like you to test something for me…"

There was no one.

Kyle finally collapsed back down onto his cot, his lungs exhausted from shouting. He had threatened. He had begged. But none of it brought any response from his faceless, unknown captors.

He was trapped. Alone.

Sunny...

What had they done with her?

The last thing he either expected or wanted was a response to that question.

The scream was deafening. It seemed to come from all around him, reverberating off the steel walls of his cell.

His insides turned to ice.

"STOP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO HER? STOP IT! STOP IT! DO YOU HEAR ME?! STOP!"

He continued to shout at the top of his lungs, releasing profanations, execrations and maledictions such as he had never uttered before. Cursing them all as the sons of devils and wolves. Until finally he could curse no more.

**Denver, Colorado**

**October 26, 20_**

5:00 MST

They had not expected a group this large to greet them in Denver.

Both Jared and Reeves had stepped out of the vehicle once they had announced their presence by flashing the headlights in an agreed-upon Morse code sequence. From several yards away, there had been an answering flash followed by the sight of three vehicles flipping on their headlights at once.

Nate himself stepped out to the front. Rob stood at his right while, unexpectedly, Jeb stood at his left. Beyond them, Jared and Reeves could see a cluster of other gathered figures, both adults and children.

It was Nate who broke the silence first.

"Took you guys long enough. Who's the newby?" He looked Reeves straight in the eyes as he spoke. Something mutual passed between the two men, and the latter instantly saw that the question was a test.

"Captain Dylan Reeves, United States Marine Corps." Reeves chose his answer deliberately. As expected, a certain recognition appeared in the other man's bearing, which underwent a sudden transformation. Nate seemed to stand straighter, his attention utterly focused.

"Sergeant Major Nathan Montrose. The same."

"The Gulf?"

"The second time, not the first. Saw my action in Baghdad."

Reeves nodded slowly, the respect in his eyes clear for all to see. "Fallujah. Third Battalion, 1st Marines."

Nate blinked, clearly taken aback with an awed respect of his own. "What decoration?"

The question took much for granted, but Reeves answered smoothly. "Purple Heart. Just about aborted my career in the Marines."

Jeb cleared his throat as if to bring them both back to the present. He turned to Jared. "How'd things go in Los Angeles, by the way?" The question was asked casually, but the intentional tone of his voice gave much away.

Jared snorted. "What do _you_ think?"

"Raiding party got back and gave us the heads up three hours." Nate inserted himself abruptly back into the conversation. "We all know what's going on."

"We were attacked." Reeves chose that moment to speak again as well. "They were souls, but it wasn't us they were after. I think we just got in their way. They were targeting Seekers."

"We grabbed one after they slagged him." Jared picked up where's his uncle's account left off. "He's under guard in the car right now. Say's his name's [?]."

Jeb raised a single eyebrow. "You seem to be collecting 'em these days, you know that, Jared?"

This time silence was the younger man's only response. He stared Jeb straight in the eye, his expression deadpan.

Reeves interjected himself again, indicating his head towards the assembled group with the trucks. His statement was directed at Nate. "That's a rather large party you have with you back there. I doubt you bought them all out this far just to escort us back with you."

"We just got some other intel besides the news reports." Nate answered the implied question grimly. "We've had a guest of our own the last couple of days. It seems he and your Healer knew each other."

Reeves turned his gaze back to the other man, the slightest hint of confusion showing in his eyes and voice. "Knew each other?"

One of the shadowed figures – shorter than many of the others - in the clustered group suddenly stepped into the headlights' glare. "Dylan?"

For the briefest of moments, Reeves froze, his stance almost catatonic. He stared in utter silence for several seconds, his jaw hanging uncharacteristically ajar, and his eyes glued to the source of the voice.

No. It was not possible. Not here. Not now.

And yet it was.

"_Link?_" The name arose from his lips was so faint that only the two men standing the closest to him were able to hear it. The man it was intended for simply read his lips.

Dr. Lincoln White stepped closer, flipping back the hood from his head so that his scarred, mutilated features were completely un-obscured. A sheen of moisture gathered over both his eyes, and he swallowed a sizable lump forming in his throat.

"You're alive. Thank God." White's voice came out in a haggard rasp that nearly broke with emotion.

Reeves gave no words in response. He chose instead to march the short distance to where the man stood, taking him physically by the shoulders with both hands. He looked him straight in the eye, the disbelief present even now.

"What happened to you?" It was all he could ask now that he had found his voice again.

White closed his eyes and tightened his lips, suppressing something deep and painful. "It's an incredibly long story."

"And well worth hearing cover-to-cover when we have the time." Jeb's voice suddenly interrupted everything. "But right now I'll remind you of the most essential parts. The same people who came after us are looking for him too. That's why we're hightailing it out of here while we can. They got Fords' cell phone and they're likely tracking down the number as we speak. There'll be time to hear it all once we're someplace safe."

Reeve looked up; his eyes now full of resolve. He let his hands drop from White's shoulders and turned around so he could speak to the others face to face.

"I know a place. It's in Nevada. We're going there now. Given what's going on, it probably should have been our first resource."

Jeb narrowed both eyes in a curious squint. "Where in Nevada?"

"You're asking me for patience, Mr. Stryder. I'll ask the same of you."

**Nevada desert**

**October 26, 20_**

20:00 MST

By the time they reached their destination they had been driving a grueling 15 hours.

Their party consisted of a three large medium-sized trucks, each one carrying a full load of passengers. They managed to avoid much of the panic-spawned traffic snarls by avoiding the main highways when they could, but the trip was further complicated by the need to maintain a sizeable distance between each vehicle lest it become obvious to outside observers that they belonged to the same party.

Reeves, driving the lead truck and directing the activities of the other two via radio communication, ultimately far into the Nevada desert. The urbanized landscape disappeared around them, giving way to cactus, sand and dust against a backdrop of rugged, craggy hills and mountains. The roads they were taking gave way from asphalt to gravel and dust.

Jeb, seated in the cab of the leading truck alongside Reeves and Jared, suddenly had a vague sense of déjà vu. The area seemed to be gradually becoming more and more familiar in a way he could not quantify.

The truck suddenly passed a large red-white sign on the left-hand side of the road they were taking. Though weathered and aged, its message was still clearly printed for all to see in bold, red lettering.

**WARNING**

**U.S. Air Force Installation**

**It is unlawful to enter this area without permission of the Installation Commander.**

Farther down, there was additional text, this time in white lettering against a red background.

**WARNING!**

**No Trespassing**

**Authority N.R.S. 207-200**

**Maximum Punishment: $1000 Fine **

**Six Months Imprisonment**

**Or Both**

**Strictly Enforced**

**PHOTOGRAPHY **

**OF THIS AREA **

**IS PROHIBITED**

**18 USC 795**

The déjà vu abruptly became a memory. Jeb immediately jerked his head back, facing Dylan Reeves, who silently ignored him, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. For the time being, Jeb maintained his own silence, settling for a slight narrowing of his eyes in suspicious curiosity.

Reeves continued driving the truck forward for some time thereafter. Finally, in the distance they saw something else. The outline of a chain link fence came into view, with an entrance gate and what appeared to be guard shacks. A single, black and white-marked barrier – similar to a railroad crossing – lay across the gate. A red stop sign was imposed right in the barrier's center.

The truck came to a stop. Reeves stepped out the driver's side and physically grasped the barrier with both hands. Apparently having gone years with no maintenance, the aged wood snapped like kindling. He dragged the large piece to the side of the road before stepping back into the vehicle. The way was now clear for entry.

"Mr. Stryder." Reeves turned in his seat so that he faced Jeb head on. "Welcome to Area 51."


	20. Chapter 20

**Groom Lake, Nevada**

**Seven Years Earlier**

**June 13, 20_**

2:09 MST

Their final orders had come by radio broadcast half an hour after they had been summoned from their base 100 miles to the west.

"_Black Knight One, you have green light to engage. Be advised of uniformed resistance. Extreme prejudice. Repeat, extreme prejudice. Orders on top. Regain and lock target. Target is New Base Headquarters. Maintain confinement. All black. Repeat, all black_."

In a series of short, cryptic sentences, the message had communicated an infinitely sobering level of detail.

_Uniformed resistance_. It was a nightmare scenario that haunted analytical circles from the Pentagon to Langley. Terrorist forces, disguised as U.S. military personnel, had seized control of a government research facility.

_Extreme prejudice_. Their team was now authorized to use any means necessary - up to and including deadly force – to regain the facility. Or destroy it along with the enemy forces that occupied it.

_Orders on top_. The directive had come straight down from the highest echelons of the chain of command – perhaps even the White House.

_All black_. The mission itself would be wholly classified. Any local military forces or law enforcement would not be informed. No one else would ever know what happened here tonight.

The forty soldiers that made up this unit were drawn from all branches of the U.S. Armed Forces. The best to be had from the Army, Navy, and Marines. An elite among elites. Each one an expert in several technical fields in addition to their combat training.

Yet they operated in a way diametrically opposed to the usages of the regular military. None of them addressed each other by rank. Aside from the orders their commander gave them, they functioned as a team of absolute equals. Neither their uniforms nor their equipment bore any form of insignia or identification markings. Nor did the aircraft they flew. These latter two factors would have placed them outside both the Geneva Convention and FAA regulations. But the work they did was too critical to bother with legal niceties.

Dean Kistler, the team leader, had immediately ordered a cleared landing zone and take-off following confirmation of the order. They now advanced swiftly though the air, the main body of troops aboard a CH-53E Super Stallion accompanied on either side by two missile-armed Apaches.

Kistler took a moment to glance backwards from his place beside the Stallion's pilot, observing the assembled force of men at their places in the hold. They sat at rigid attention, identically clad in their black combat fatigues and faces obscured beneath dark grease paint, weapons at the ready.

He did not allow himself to reflect on the gravity of their task tonight. The orders had been short and to the point, giving no explanation of the why's or the how's of what had just taken place. But Kistler knew from his years both in the regular military and in black ops that a breach of this significance was unprecedented. It was likely that every single man he would now be leading into harm's way tonight had heard of the facility they were about to storm. And the oft-nonsensical mythology that had surrounded it for years, bred of an iron-clad veil of secrecy.

But none of that mattered tonight. His task was to make sure they all came back alive.

**Groom Lake, Nevada**

**Area 51**

**June 13, 20_**

2:10 MST

General Carther's face held an expression of grim, stoic satisfaction as he regarded the figures of his assembled personnel. At first glance, they could have been mistaken for the high command of the Allies or Axis, gathered around an antique war planning table. All of them stood together now around a raised platform covered with a large sheet of schematics which they had been studying for the past several hours.

"Well done, Gentlemen." He regarded each of their faces one by one. The group presented an eclectic mix of civilian scientists, engineers, and researchers that rubbed shoulders with military officers and enlisted personnel. Carther had known them long enough to call each one by name.

"As a result of your efforts tonight, Sunfire will live on." Indeed it would. The essential remnants of the project now lay several stories underground beneath a single hangar in this sprawling complex whose decommission was now essentially complete. In the minds of all relevant policymakers, both this base and the secret it now guarded had ceased to exist. Sunfire would remain here unseen and unlooked for until the opportune time to raise it from the depths.

"I thank you all for your service these past three years." The occasion merited a commendation of sorts, however short. "And, God willing, the day will come when your countrymen will as well."

"General Carther." An airman's voice suddenly sounded from the string of manned computer consoles that lined the edge of the room. Carther automatically turned to acknowledge as the man continued. "We have three inbound unidentified infiltrators ten miles north."

The General's eyes narrowed. He immediately strode away from the platform and leaned down to take in the image on the airman's radar screen. What he saw confirmed the young soldier's words. Officially, the flight activity in this area was no longer supposed to be the concern it had been in the past. But this was still an Air Force installation. And security protocols still applied.

"_Unidentified aircraft, you are in restricted U.S. military airspace. Walk IDENT and proceed west out of the area." _The clear, commanding voice suddenly crackled into existence through the headphones of the two men in the cockpit of the Stallion.

Farrell, the pilot, jerked his head involuntarily. Though the upper portion of his face was obscured beneath the black visor of his flight helmet, there was no mistaking his startled expression. He looked in Kistler's direction. "Sir?"

"Disregard. Turn on the jammer." Kistler answered automatically, not showing how much he had been shaken himself. Whoever now controlled that facility, they were scrupulously detailed. That message had sounded identical to the standard hail that would be issued by any U.S. base commander. It was enough to cause a split second of doubt.

It was quickly suppressed. Area 51 was currently overrun by a terrorist force. Their orders had confirmed it.

They never questioned orders.

"They're not squawking. Patch us into Edwards Air Base."

"Sir, radar just went black!"

Carther snapped his head back around at the sound of the airman's voice. He had left the console and was standing upright as he broadcast the command through his headpiece. Suddenly, he saw nothing but kaleidoscopes of static chaos displayed across every single view-screen in the command center. A sea of perplexed voices suddenly began to arise at every console as the man's predicament became just one of many. His trained eyes recognized the signs immediately.

They were being jammed.

"Panther, take out Quick Kill Radar site and DYCOMS 1 and 2. Wildcat, take a strafing run over New Headquarters and give us cover on the ground." Kistler barked the order to the two Apache pilots through his headset before turning about to face the assembled force in the Stallion's hold. "Alright, people, lock and load!"

A grim, determined expression fell as one across the faces of the assembled force as they readied their weapons. There would be no quarter tonight.

With its decommission imminent, Area 51 was guarded by only a small, reduced force of Air Force Security Forces, most of them clustered around the New Headquarters building where Carther currently resided with his assembled staff. A grand total of two F-22 Raptor currently sat grounded on their tarmacs, a small fighter escort for the cargo planes that had carried most of the facility's current occupants.

The Hellfire missile strikes were witnessed by all those stationed outside as they obliterated the radar sites to the north. Some of them had time to process the fact that they were under attack – before their bodies were torn to pieces by the 30 mm rounds mercilessly delivered by the second Apache's chain gun. Others attempted to return fire before they too met their now-inevitable demise. Those that survived, remembering their primary mission and orders, immediately took cover as best they could and furiously began the futile process of evacuating essential personnel.

"Let's move, move, move!" Carther simply followed the voice of one of the two airmen hustling him across the grounds. Both were armed with M16 assault rifles which they held out at the ready, sweeping their sights across the grounds as they ran. He himself gripped a drawn Beretta in his right hand. Though a comparatively pitiful means of defense in these circumstances, he was fully prepared to use it if need be.

The general did his best to keep his lungs clear of the black fumes of smoke even now flowing from the fiery remains of the radar and control towers. The haze had spread across almost the entire complex. Ironically, it was rendered somewhat less thick and poisonous by the swirling blades of the attacking choppers. The two soldiers, he knew, were taking the larger brunt of it than himself. But they continued forward naked-faced, unfazed and stoic.

Given a few more seconds, they might have reached their own helicopter tarmac and made the flight to safety. But it was not to be.

Two dark shadows suddenly appeared before them, phantasmically emerging from the smoky mist. From far behind, the shape of a large aircraft could be seen hovering in the air, which Carther immediately recognized now as a CH-53 Super Stallion. He could also distinguish the forms of the black-clad soldiers rappelling downwards. Most of their features were obscured. But there was no mistaking the weapons in their hands, nor their intended targets.

The two soldiers with him reacted automatically. The closest one immediately slammed into the general with his own body, forcing him to the side and to the ground. It was just enough to avoid the deadly stream of tracer rounds that screamed above their heads.

The other soldier released a barrage of fire from his rifle, sweeping it across in a suppressive maneuver that prompted both the black-clad assailants to drop and somersault for cover.

"Keep moving! I'll hold them off!" The soldier shouted over the roar of his own gunfire, his face illuminated by the glow of fire and sweat.

"Come on!" Carther's self-appointed guardian yanked him to his feet and they both began running and alternate route through the base, barely avoiding a second release of fire from their pursuers, still held only partially at bay.

Out of nowhere, there was a sudden eruption from several hundred yards across the complex. Carther glanced backwards even as he continued to run. A large plume of smoke and fire was rising from a distant location obscured by the buildings in front of them. But his stomach clenched as he mentally calculated the position. It was precisely where their civilian personnel would have been boarding their own aircraft for evacuation. They had not been quick enough to escape the Apache's missile.

"Look out!" The soldier still with him suddenly drew up the barrel of his rifle, firing off a round that struck the head of another of the phantom killers over-running the base. The enemy soldier sank to his knees, with the rest of his body quickly following suit. But another quickly emerged to take his place, releasing a fresh burst of tracer rounds that found their mark in the young trooper's chest, penetrating the weak points in the Kevlar.

Carther himself dived for cover behind the corner of the adjoining dormitory. He then stepped out to release a blast from his own weapon. It was aimed much higher than the shot that killed his guard. He was rewarded with the sight of the soldier's killer staggering backwards before sinking lifelessly to the ground.

But his gratification was short-lived. Another black form suddenly appeared from the darkness, firing its weapon before he could react. The rounds slammed into his right thigh and abdomen.

Carther managed one more shot before his body impacted the ground. The attacker jerked his head before falling forward, rendered instantly brain-dead by the bullet that had pierced his skull.

The general allowed his gun hand to sink heavily to the dust beside him. He was aware of very little now aside from the pain that consumed everything else as the life drained from his body in red, liquid form. One more corpse among so many others tonight.

He had failed.

Carther was aware of one final shape that passed before his eyes as the darkness gathered at the edges of his vision. Another dark figure – closer and taller this time. He had just enough strength to raise his head so that they looked one another in the eye. This man, like the other attackers, was dressed from head to toe in black fatigues that displayed no form of identifying insignia, his face darkened by grease paint. His eyes were hard, full of purpose.

The man's hands were enclosed around an MP5 submachine gun which he raised into position, the barrel aimed straight between Carther's eyes.

The general neither heard nor felt the shot that ended his life.

Dean Kistler lowered his weapon to his side, taking a moment to observe the body of the terrorist that had killed two of his men.

Like the two others that had been with him, the man was dressed in an Air Force ABU with a gray-striped camouflage pattern. The lapel collar displayed the two stars of a Major General, and the name "Carther" was clearly indicated on the name patch to the left. These people had to have invested enormous amounts of effort to pull off this elaborate charade. The man's disguise was accurate down to the last detail.

Kistler tore his eyes away from the body, radioing in additional commands to his team. By now, they had all but secured the complex, and virtually the entire occupying force had been eliminated. They would be collecting the bodies for air transport back to their home base. It would be up to their superiors to determine the ultimate destination for the remains – as well as the cover story to explain the deaths of almost a hundred American soldiers.

No. Not soldiers. Terrorists. He could not afford to believe otherwise.

**Washington D.C. **

**June 13, 20_**

5:00 EST

The call came to Locklin just as he entered his office. He was not normally given to such early working hours, but these last few days were making certain demands. He lifted the receiver to his ear after just a quick glance at the caller ID. It indicated the Department of Defense.

"Good morning, Mr. Secretary. You have news for me, I presume?"

"_It's done_." The voice on the other end spoke flatly, its owner making no effort to hide his loathing.

Although he knew the Secretary of Defense had no way of seeing it, Locklin responded with a satisfied nod. "Very good. You have honored your part of the bargain and so I will honor mine. The documents remain in deep encryption. I will have no cause to release them unless at some future date you force my hand."

"_I want them destroyed." _

"I need not remind you, Mr. Secretary, that I could not do that even if I had the desire to do so. Let me reiterate to you the first lesson we teach to everyone student in our school system on the uses and dangers of social media – once something has been placed online it's there _forever_."

"_I'll break you for this, Locklin._" The voice almost growled with suppressed rage.

Locklin's reply was smooth and unshaken. "We both know very well that you will do no such thing, Mr. Secretary. Unless you have a burning desire to become the first cabinet official in American history to spend the rest of his life in federal prison."

"_If it came to that, you would be the first to join me_."

Locklin's response was an arrogant chuckle. "Highly unlikely. Have you heard of a certain concept known as 'plausible deniability'? It was you who gave the order tonight, not I. Who is ever going to believe that you acted on the wishes of anyone other than yourself or the President? And even if the prosecution did reach me, they would bargain on any terms for the evidence I could give them. Can you picture it, Mr. Secretary? Think of what people throughout this country would be seeing on their TVs and reading in their newspapers. A high-ranking official in a so-called 'Peace' administration who not only used his status to gain lucrative military contracts for the company he controlled prior to his political career, but continued to use that same company for highly-profitable arms exports to the most blood-thirsty cartels and militias in both Latin America and the Middle East. Take some time to turn over that image in your head and see how much it appeals."

He contemptuously slammed down the receiver, almost sneering. There was nothing to fear. This man was a coward. A puppet. All too easy to manipulate.

But useful as well. Carther and his followers had been a nuisance for years. Strangely obsessed with that so-called nuclear fusion project, or whatever it really was. Locklin did not know the details of Sunfire, nor did he particularly care about them. It could only create useless obstacles to what was coming.

But it had been the confirmed connection with Dylan Reeves that had truly sealed the general's fate.

It had taken Detweiler a mere two months of digging before he had uncovered the identity of the man who had ultimately crippled Azrael. The Center had kept him under watch in the three years following, biding their time until they verified his network of contacts and determined if anyone else had aided him. They had also been cautious about moving too quickly, not wishing to alert Reeves himself or anyone else. They had allowed him to believe that all had been forgotten, lulling him into a false security.

Now they would end his borrowed time.

He had to muse momentarily on the fact of how few there would be to truly mourn Reeves' death. They had pulled his file from the CIA records. He had no living relatives or family. A pity in a way. But then again it meant the Center need not expend the resources to kill them.

Locklin glanced at his watch. In less than an hour, he would be hearing back from Braden…


	21. Chapter 21

**Korea**

**October 26, 20_**

4:00 KTZ

He had spent the last several hours in total silence, punctuated by occasional episodes of attempted, though ultimately unsuccessful sleep. Although the screaming had long since mercifully ceased, the lights of his cell remained as bright as ever. They were obviously controlled by an outside source. There was a not a single switch to be found on any of the walls.

Kyle lay supine upon the cell's single cot, his eyes fixed upon the ceiling. He had long since come to terms with the fact of his own entrapment. But his anger remained, fueled and renewed by the cries of terror and pain his captors had broadcast into his cell.

Sunny was here. It was that knowledge that kept him from falling into the despaired torpor that would have otherwise consumed him. Though he lay motionless, his body and senses could not be more alive. He heard every sound, smelled every odor. His muscles were tense and warm, ready for action at a moment's notice.

His ears immediately detected the tell-tale hiss several seconds before the noxious-sweet smell entered his nostrils.

Instinctively, he turned his head away from the source of the smell and took in a breath of clean air. To any observers, the action would have seemed too miniscule to be taken for anything different from regular breathing. But he had just absorbed a supply of oxygen that would be sufficient to support him for the next seven minutes.

Part of this talent was natural. Since his earliest years, he had been known for the ability to hold his breath far beyond that of the average human being. Since then he had refined his ability through years of practice. Much of it had started as a source of fun. But in the years since the invasion, he perfected it as an essential tool of survival.

None of this would have been known to his captors. Which was exactly his intent. He took care that his body showed all the signs of sedative-induced unconsciousness. His arms and head were allowed to drop limply over the sides of the cot. His body as a whole sagged loosely, all the muscles completely relaxed.

He remained in this position for the next four minutes as the cell became saturated with the fumes. Kyle awaited the process patiently.

The fruit of his efforts was not delayed in arriving. There was an sharp, acute, buzzing sound, followed immediately by the cell door itself shifting upwards into the ceiling to leave an open entrance. Through partially close eyelids, Kyle clearly saw the two men that entered. The faces of both were concealed beneath respiratory masks. The one who entered first was dressed in black military fatigues and armed with an assault rifle. The barrel of his weapon was swept twice across the immediate area of the entrance before he stepped to the side to admit his companion. This man was dressed in a white, full-body suit that seemed like it belonged in a laboratory.

He was unarmed.

Kyle did not hesitate.

His leg lashed out and around, impacting against the white-garbed technician's chest and propelling him physically backwards. The armed guard let off a single off-target shot as the other man's body slammed into his own. Kyle's fist cut off all further conscious thought before he could get off another.

The elder O'Shea brother snatched up the assault rifle and gave a final kick to the head of the technician to ensure that he joined his companion's coma. He also grabbed the key card he had clearly seen the guard place inside his front shirt pocket before darting outside the open doorway, taking his first breath of oxygen since the gas had been released in his cell.

He took the briefest of moments to stand still and absorb his surroundings despite the adrenaline streaming through his veins. In less than a second, he saw that he stood in what appeared to be the middle portion of a long cell block with a circular arc that placed much of it beyond sight. The color of the hall was uniformly gray and metallic. He saw at least a dozen cell doors on either side, most of which were open and empty.

Two others, located near the far end to his right, were closed.

He immediately took off down the hall towards the first of the doors, his right hand gripping the rifle while his left held the key card out and ready. It took him approximately one second to reach the door and swipe the card through the slot at the side. The door obediently swished upwards.

Unlike his own cell, this one was completely darkened, and it took his eyes a split second to adjust before he caught sight of the small figure huddled and trembling at the back wall. It was wearing a grey one-piece suit identical to his own, though tailored to accommodate a more slight and feminine figure. She tentatively lifted her head to face him, and the light danced off of her eyes. They widened as she looked at him in mutual recognition.

"Kyle?"

He did not respond immediately. His eyes were fixed on the wounds that littered her face. A simmering rage slowly built inside him as he saw dried blood spread across bruises, cuts and burn marks. He recalled the screams he had heard mere hours before.

He stepped forward. "Who did this to you?" His voice was cold with anger.

She lowered her eyes from his. Her hands gripped tighter around her eyes as fresh moisture began to spill down her checks. She gave no answer.

Kyle tightened both his jaw and his grip on the assault rifle, consciously suppressing the blinding fury inside him. There would be another time. Escape was all that mattered now.

"Let's go. We have to get out of here." He reached down and grabbed her arm as gently has he could while maintaining speed. She gave a slight whimper as he drew her to her feet, and he immediately knew the wounds were not confined to her face alone. He laid one more curse on the monsters that had put them there. Whatever happened, he would be back one day. And he would kill them one by one.

He was ready to take off the moment they stepped outside the door. So far, he had not heard any alarms, but he knew better than to assume whoever controlled this place did not already have them under surveillance. Kyle began to pull Sunny along with him in the direction he deemed most likely to have an exit at the end. But completely against all expectations, she resisted him.

"Kyle, wait. They have someone else here. I saw them enter the cell and close it as they came out."

"Sunny, we don't have time – "

"Kyle, _please_! We can't just leave him!"

It went against all his better judgment. But Kyle gave in the moment her saw the desperate pleading in her eyes.

Still keeping her close, he dashed in the exact opposite direction he had intended, reaching the cell door in three quick steps. He yanked the keycard through the slot at the side.

This door gave off a sharp buzz before it slid upward, revealing a darkened room that was somehow cavernous despite its miniscule size. There was a large, human shape inside that suddenly drew backwards.

"_Shtoh Etoh? Shtoh vy khotiteh?!" _

Kyle momentarily blinked at the stream of unintelligible words, understanding nothing save for the clear note of fear. He squinted into the receding darkness of the cell as he stepped forward. The occupant had plastered his body against the far wall. He could see now that it was an older man, perhaps in his late sixties or early seventies. A thick, graying beard outlined a haggard, worn face weary with suffering. As if the man had been a prisoner in this place for years. He was blinking rapidly against the light intruding into his cell, apparently long shrouded in darkness.

Kyle raised his left arm in a pacifying gesture. "It's alright. We're not going to hurt you." He spoke as soothingly as he could, doubting the man could understand his words. "We're to hel –" He abruptly froze. The man had finally been able to fully open his eyes as they adjusted to the brightness. His blue orbs stared directly into Kyle's own, fully illuminated by the outside lights.

He was a soul.

Sunny had seen it too. She stepped around him, holding out both hands to the prisoner and making sure he had a clear view of her own eyes.

"Don't be afraid. We're friends." She spoke in the same soothing tone, communicating as best she could through the language barrier. It apparently had some effect. The man visibly relaxed in her presence, although he still cast fearful glances in Kyle's direction.

"_K'to ty_?"

"Come with us." Sunny made beckoning gestures with her hands as she stepped closer to him. She gently took hold of his wrist. The prisoner tensed for a split second, but relaxed again when he saw her reassuring look. He made an attempt to step forward with her, but abruptly stumbled, crumpling to the floor.

Kyle's sharp eyes immediately saw that nothing in the cell had disrupted the man's footing. He had simply collapsed – instantly unconscious. His emaciated frame left no doubt that he was suffering from malnutrition.

"Kyle?" Sunny looked up at him helplessly as she knelt beside the prisoner's body. But Kyle had anticipated what she asked. He leaned down and grabbed the man's body with his left hand, hoisting it over his shoulder in one swift motion. He gave only a slight grunt from the effort. The man was far lighter than he should have been.

"Let's go." He jerked his head towards the outside hall and immediately stepped out. This time Sunny followed him in complete obedience.

The timing seemed almost deliberate. The entire cell block suddenly erupted in flashing red lights accompanied by the wail of sirens. Someone had finally tripped the alarms Kyle and expected from the beginning.

"Come on!" Kyle barked at Sunny to follow him as he darted down the cell block to his right. His eyes began furiously scanning the walls for something resembling an exit. The few signs he saw were written in foreign, vaguely oriental lettering he did not recognize.

A pictographic representation finally stood out depicting a downward flight of stairs. There was a door right beside it. The additional red lettering confirmed it as an emergency exit. They made straight for it, not caring where it led.

As expected it opened to a flight of stairs leading down towards what was apparently the ground level of the complex. They rushed downwards, the blaring of the alarms following all the way. In the distance, Kyle was sure he also heard the sound of pounding footsteps. He gripped the assault rifle as best he could in his right hand while maintaining the human load on his shoulders with the left.

The stairs finally ended at the entrance into another hallway, this one different from the cell block they had left. Had he any time for reflection, Kyle might have perplexed himself with the possible reasons this facility's builders could have for placing prisoner's quarters above rather than below most everything else. But those thoughts would have to wait.

Both of them continued on at break-neck speed, zig-zagging through a veritable maze of halls and doors. Kyle continued to interpret the various signs as best he could on the run. On this level, they were mostly pictographs rather than text. Many of them carried a red insignia that he immediately recognized as a biohazard symbol. He instinctively went in the direction opposite to the one they indicated. The alarms continued to blare all the while, and this time he was sure he heard the sounds of pursuit.

They were running out. Both of time and of breath.

Then a miracle occurred.

Kyle suddenly caught sight of another pictograph. This one depicting an object with which he was intimately familiar. He followed the arrow immediately, coming upon a final door which he threw open.

The sight that lay behind it was almost unbelievable. The doorway opened onto a balcony overlooking a vast hangar filled with aircraft of both human and alien derivation. At the far end was a massive opening that gave way to open sky – a simple point of embarkation for craft that required no runway of any kind.

But what they saw at its very center completed the miracle. A single, empty shuttle stood atop its landing gear with its nose faced straight towards the exit. An open ramp lay extended from its rear entrance, seeming to beckon any who wished to board and fly.

Kyle and Sunny gave each other a brief wordless glance before sprinting for the ramp. They had no plan to speak of for how they would pilot the shuttle. But they would figure that out once they were safe inside.

They made it down the balcony, across the hangar floor, and up the ramp in approximately five seconds. Kyle allowed Sunny to board first, reaching out and tripping to button to raise the ramp behind him. He had visited enough shuttle fields to know exactly where it was.

The interior of the craft was remarkably spacious, if a bit bare. This shuttle was almost certainly used for cargo transport and had not yet been loaded. Towards the front, they saw the open door to a cockpit with three unoccupied seats. Strapping themselves and their still-unconscious companion in place, they finally turned to the controls.

Sunny shot Kyle a look of trepidation. He replied to it automatically. "I can fly this." His voice carried more confidence then he really felt. He focused on the switches and handles he saw before him, his thoughts reviewing the basics of the flight lessons he had taken years before. Every aircraft had three basic functions: roll, pitch, yaw…

There were several sudden cracks of gunfire outside, and impact marks suddenly appeared across the forward window of the cockpit. Both conscious occupants instinctively ducked down in their seats, catching a brief glance of the swarm of guards that was pouring into the hangar from all directions. Kyle irrelevantly observed that they had been a tad slower than the Imperial Stormtroopers that had pursued Han Solo and the _Millennium Falcon_.

Even though his ducked position obscured his vision outside the cockpit, he began rapidly pushing buttons on the dashboard. He had only a vague idea of their functions. But they need to get out of here. Now.

Completely contrary to his expectations, the shuttle responded exactly as he had wanted. There was a brief vibration that reverberated through the entire craft as it lifted vertically upwards and retracted its landing gear, hovering in place several feet above the hangar floor. Bullets bounced of its outer surface as the soldiers vainly continued their firing.

Kyle slammed his hand down on one final button, this one clearly labeled with a forward arrow.

The effect was instantaneous. The shuttle propelled forward almost as fast as the bullets that pursued it, zooming outwards through the hangar exit and into the open air.

Kyle grabbed another device on the dashboard that resembled a joystick. Now that they were airborne, he knew exactly how to control the craft. He brought it around in a brief turn so they caught a glimpse of the point from which they emerged. They saw now that the hangar had been carved directly into the side of a massive cliff that jutted out over a vast forest of pine trees. The entire facility seemed to be on the interior of a mountain formation.

He turned the craft around and increased their elevation. They were soon leaving the entire facility behind.

There was a sudden, blaring noise that sounded from within the cockpit. Looking back down at the dashboard, Kyle saw a small radar-like screen in the middle currently displaying two flashing red dots coming up fast behind a neutral green object. He was able to interpret it instantly. They were being followed.

There was another crack of gunfire, this one louder and far more powerful anything from a handheld weapon. The entire shuttle shook violently. Two aerodynamic shapes suddenly became visible outside the cockpit as they zoomed ahead before turning around for a second run. They were instantly recognizable as fighter jets. Kyle was able to identify the type as soon as he spotted the red stars painted on the wings and stabilizer fins.

MiG-35s.

Kyle had made a hobby of studying the various fighter jets of the world's military forces prior to the invasion. He had heard of these planes, developed by the Russian Air Force as a deadlier, more advanced version of the previous Soviet MiG-29.

Whoever their captors were, they had no intentions of recapturing them alive.

He banked hard to the left to avoid the stream of fire from one of the plane's cannons as it dove back towards them. The other came up alongside the shuttle. It was close enough that Kyle made direct eye contact with the pilot. The man coldly narrowed his eyes before breaking away for yet another run. So far, both of them were using only their forward-mounted machine guns. But it was only a matter of time before they released their heat-seeking missiles.

Kyle hesitated only a moment before making his decision. He turned towards Sunny.

"You remember a few years back when I got kicked out of flight school?"

She looked at him, confused. Then understanding slowly dawned. A look of pure terror metastasized across her face.

"Kyle…"

"You're about to find out why."

"KYLE!"

He ignored her shout, yanking the joy-stick hard the right. The entire shuttle immediately entered a helical barrel roll. The attacking aircraft were forced to flight out ahead of them in an overshoot, but they immediately began to correct, attempting to follow the shuttle's path.

Kyle knew the scenario. All three aircraft would soon be locked in a maneuver known among combat pilots as the "rolling scissors." It would be an infinitely extended contest decided by the aircraft with the higher turn rate.

He had a sudden thought. This shuttle was not just an aircraft.

His hand gripped the joystick, maintaining the roll as he took the craft higher and higher. All three of the craft seemed to climb for hours. They went to a height rarely reached by any atmospheric craft. The blue sky above them slowly darkened, giving way to back. The landscape below them receded ever farther, assuming a curved, globular shape. The stars became visible as they reached the very edge of space.

Far below, Kyle finally saw the two MiGs break off their pursuit, forced back to their home base both by a lack of fuel and their inability to operate outside the atmosphere. He finally released his hand from the control, leaning back in the seat with a sigh of relief.

With their safety now assured, he took a moment to absorb the wonder of the sights around them. He could barely believe the reality of their position.

They were in orbit. In space.

Far beneath, he could see the curvature of the earth. There was the outline of a peninsular formation surrounded by the ocean. Though geography had never been his strong suit, Kyle instantly recognized it.

Korea.

He looked back towards Sunny. Aside from a slightly green tinge to her face, she seemed none the worse for wear. "You okay?"

She closed her eyes and swallowed. "A little nauseous, but I'm fine. Please don't do that again."

"Sorry." Kyle looked back at screen on the dashboard. He had another sudden thought that he tested by tapping his finger against the glass. The display instantly responded to his touch, brining up a menu of options. It was obviously a link to an onboard computer. He was pleased to see that one of the options was a GPS.

He looked back up at Sunny. "Let's go home."

**Groom Lake, Nevada**

**Area 51**

**October 26, 20_**

8:15 MST

From the time they had entered the gate, Jeb Stryder had felt for all the world as if he was on hallowed ground.

He had been fascinated with this place almost the entirety of his adult life, much of it through the many novels, films and television programs that had built its reputation in the minds of the American public. But he had delved deeper than that. He had consumed everything piece of real-world information he could about this facility, often spending hours poring over aerial maps of the complex itself and comparing various firsthand accounts of those who tried to enter it. He had thirstily drank in the disparate theories that surrounded this base and its purpose, most of all those asserting its storage of captured alien remains and technology.

And now, finally, unbelievably, he had achieved the dream of so many who had tried to probe this place's secrets.

He was _inside_ Area 51.

Dylan was still at the wheel of the truck, guiding it down a paved route that took it into the very midst of the facility's clustered buildings and infrastructure. Jeb maintained a near-reverent silence as his eyes eagerly scanned them all, matching each one with its place on the maps he had studied. From this vantage point, he saw that several of the towers and larger buildings were wrecked and scorched – some of them completely in ruins. Just as if they had seen both explosions and fire.

That perplexed him. The images that had been available to him had never revealed any form of damage to the base. What could have caused it? How recently had it happened?

Jeb suddenly had a darker thought, remembering the attackers that had destroyed their haven in the caves. As he pondered the buildings' condition further, he now saw that the effect would have been consistent with aerial missile strikes.

What had happened here?

He turned to face Reeves, his mouth opening with an unformed question that the other man quickly anticipated.

"Patience, Mr. Stryder. We're almost where we need to be."

Jeb looked forward on the path they were currently taking. In the distance towards the south, he saw a large, metallic structure which in front of a towering dirt berm, off away from the main dormitories. He recognized it from the maps – Hangar 25. Reeves continued driving for a short distance before coming to a stop several yards short of the building. They all remained inside the vehicle as the rest of the trucks behind them pulled up and parked in a cluster near the building's north entrance.

Reeves was the first to step outside, followed by Jeb and the other occupants of his truck as they spilled out the front and back doors. The occupants of the other vehicles followed suit. A sizeable mass of people soon materialized, gathered in silent expectation.

Nate was the first to break the silence with a low whistle. "I gotta say I wasn't expecting this…". He mused aloud as he looked both the hangar and the rest of the complex up and down. "Last time I saw this place was in _Independence Day_."

"The last time I saw it was one week before the base commander and personnel were massacred in cold blood." Reeves spoke ever so softly, his voice grim and seeming to deliberately enforce a harsh return to reality. He ignored the taken aback looks on the others' faces as he stepped toward the building's entrance, producing a small plastic card from a shirt pocket.

There was a brief buzz and a resounding, hollow click as he swiped the card through a slot on the wall beside the doorway. The door itself offered no resistance as he pushed it inwards, holding it open so that the others behind him could enter. The group that followed consisted of himself, Jenna, Nate, Rob, Jeb, Doc, Jared, Ian, Wanda, Melanie, Jamie, Fords, Burns, and Dr. White. The others, most of them fully armed, stayed behind to stand watch over the vehicles.

The first thing to greet them was a suffocating darkness. But it was suddenly dispelled by a light switch that Reeves flipped on the side wall. It escaped none of them how intimately familiar he seemed with this place. The interior of the hangar was vast and empty, steel walls framing a massive, metallic floor that may have once held numerous aircraft. Or perhaps spacecraft. Jeb still held out an anticipatory hope.

Reeves fingers barely ceased their activity. He spoke again as he entered in a sequence on a dial pad right next to the switch he had thrown.

"Step to the center."

There was a sudden, massive vibration that seemed to shake the whole building. Reeves alone was unshaken by it. He calmly stepped back into the center of the floor just as the others suddenly realized that it was _moving_. Not just moving – _sinking_. The walls of the hangar began rising higher and higher, the floor now revealing itself as a single, massive hydraulic platform. Nate immediately recognized the similarity to the elevators used for lifting planes on aircraft carriers.

The platform continued lowering for approximately 15 seconds before coming to halt before a large open doorway that marked the beginning of a massively wide tunnel. Jeb's mind connected the dots about a split-second before the others did. Whatever this hanger had held, it was stored underground. And this was the way it had been taken. His heartbeat quickened.

Reeves led the way as his awestruck followers trailed behind him, taking in their surroundings. His voice echoed through the tunnel, the tone almost conversational now.

"Contrary to the rumors you may have heard, this facility never housed any alien life-forms or their ships. But what they did do here was just as exotic."

The tunnel abruptly terminated, opening into another, larger chamber. Like the rest of this facility, shadows and darkness suffused everything. But two large, black, vaguely aerodynamic objects were barely visible in the center, even before Reeves flipped another switch that bathed the room in light.

Ian blinked momentarily as the sudden visibility. "Are those… B-2s?" A deep awe infused his voice, and it was felt by the rest of the group. He had picked up enough of his brother's interest in aviation to immediately identify the two massive, delta-shaped craft , and their reputation did not escape him. They were the most advanced stealth bombers in the United States Air Force, able to fly in absolute silence and wreak absolute havoc beyond the sight of radar. Only a limited number of them had ever been in existence, and that spoke volumes about their presence here.

"Yes and no." Reeves responded to Ian's question somewhat cryptically as he ran a hand over the sharp-nosed surface of one of the planes. His touch seemed almost reverent. "These are the last remaining trace of Project Sunfire."

"Project Sunfire?" Nate stared at Reeves, his face perplexed at the meaningless term none of them had heard.

Reeves lifted his hand and began walking roundabout the two aircraft. He spoke as he moved, seemingly citing a long-memorized script.

"To give you all a full appreciation for its meaning, I'll have to start at the very beginning – which will be with a man named Thomas Townsend Brown. It's likely none of you have ever heard of him. That's a shame. He was one of the most brilliant scientists and inventors of his day, and his discoveries arguably outstrip both Newton and Einstein.

"His complete life-story would take far more time to relate in full than we have here. He was born in 1905 and was most active from the 20s to the 50s. He explored many areas of research, but he started on his most significant one quite inadvertently during a high school experiment involving a Coolidge tube – an x-ray emitting vacuum tube similar to those used in dentistry. He mounted the device upon a delicate balance, intending to see if it produced any thrust when turned on. At the time, the exercise was little more than a diversion, and he expected no significant results.

"But the results were more than just significant. The machine moved every single time he switched it on. At first, the phenomenon perplexed him. But he worked out a theoretical explanation after ruling out X-rays – the tube's gravitational field was being affected by the high voltage he applied to the plates.

"You have to understand how revolutionary the implications of this were. Conventional models of physics tell us that gravity is a basic, immutable force of the universe, a phenomenon of mass warping space-time. Something completely immune to manipulation."

Reeves paused momentarily, looking them all in the eye one by one as he willed them to understand the meaning of his statement.

"In time, Brown conducted further experiments to test his theory. For this purpose, he constructed a wooden box that contained a series of electrically conductive plates made of lead and separated by sheets of glass. I'll summarize just one of the tests he conducted: when energized with 150,000 volts of direct current, the device developed thrust in the direction of its positively charged end; when placed upright, it would lose weight when the positive end faced upward and gain it when the negative end was placed downward. The application of electrical current was _altering_ _its gravitational field_."

He stressed the last syllables of his sentence with a fierce intensity. His eyes were once again glued to the aircraft before them. His pace quickened, and he seemed to roam the chamber like a caged animal.

"Brown didn't stop his experiments there. He developed another rotating pendulum device that operated on the same principles. This one was advanced enough that he obtained a patent. A British one, since the scientific community in the United States wouldn't take him seriously enough. This device displayed another intriguing effect – it produced forward thrust with no back-directed recoil – something that is supposed to be manifestly impossible under Newton's third law of motion. If you all remember your high school physics, I'm referring the principle of every action having an equal and opposite reaction.

"But that wasn't all this device could do. Its pendular motion made it a natural energy generator. But it generated more energy than it took in – sometimes on a ratio of a million to one. I'm sure you can guess what that would make it – a perpetual motion machine. Something that effectively nullifies the first law of thermodynamics and represents the Holy Grail of the energy sciences."

If anyone's attention had been wavering at the beginning, they were now fully captivated. The audacity of his impossible statement held them speechless. Jeb suddenly began to observe the two aircraft with an intensified focus, attempting to anticipate where Reeves was going with his account. The other man seemed to notice, for he immediately picked up where he left off.

"Brown's career over the next few decades was varied. He participated in a variety of both civilian and military research projects, one of the more significant of which was the Philadelphia Experiment of 1943. That represents a story in its own right, but one which we'll leave for a later time.

"He continued to refine the technology of gravitational field manipulation, which he referred to as 'electrogravitics', seeking - quite naturally – to expand it into the field of aviation. He produced more prototypes – this time saucer-like discs that could achieve flight and levitation."

If it were possible, Jeb suddenly became even more transfixed than he was before. His expression was not lost on Reeves, who gave a quiet smile before continuing.

"His ultimate vision in this area was the production of passenger-carrying saucer craft – able to accelerate thousands of miles per hour, change direction, and decelerate instantaneously. All of it accomplished simply by altering the intensity, polarity, and direction of an electric charge. The gravitational field would pull with equal force on all particles of matter in both the ship and its occupants. There would be no 'g-forces' experienced whatsoever by the passengers."

"All those UFO sightings…" Jeb spoke for the first time since entering the complex, his voice slow and measured, the light dawning in his eyes.

"Highly experimental aircraft being used in field tests by the Air Force." Reeves finished the thought for him. "Brown demonstrated his saucer discs several times to a military audience in the 1950s and proposed a project for the further development of electrogravitic technology both for immediate military use and ultimately for the benefit of the world at large. Project Winterhaven, as he called it, was unfortunately never implemented in the way he envisioned. But its ideas lived on in a variety of highly-classified military R&Ds – the most significant of which ultimately produced the B-2 bomber, a hybrid craft incorporating both conventional jet engines and electrogravitic propulsion."

Reeves paused once more to run his hand over aircraft's surface. The faces of all his companions were uniformly stupefied. Some of them had just experienced a complete turnaround in their sense of reality. Reeves allowed them several seconds to adjust before he spoke again.

"Sunfire was the latest, most revolutionary, of these projects, seeking to further develop electrogravitic technology to a level it had never achieved before. But before I describe exactly how, there's something else I'll need to explain. By this time, you can see that the electrogravitic phenomenon cannot be explained using our current models of physics. Brown saw that too, but he never worked out a complete theory to explain. That was left to various other researchers beginning in the 1970s. The theory that arose from their work is called 'subquantum kinetics'. It's every bit as complex as Einstein's General Theory of Relativity, so I'll just give its most relevant points.

"Subquantum kinetics can be looked at in many ways as an expansion of quantum mechanics, the main difference being that it explores phenomenon on a subatomic rather than atomic level. According to the theory, once we explore subatomic phenomena, there is no longer a law of conservation of matter or energy. Both new matter and new energy _can _come into existence from a subatomic ether that underlies all physical reality.

"In addition, the theory has three other points that directly contradict general relativity. First of all, space is assumed to be geometrical flat and conforming to geometrical rules we are all familiar with. Mass creates a gravity potential field, with a gradient exerting force on a remote body by affecting how subatomic particles regenerated their physical form. This, rather than mass warping space-time, is responsible for the gravitational effect.

"Secondly, it assumed that mass both attracts and repels other objects, depending on the charge of the gravitational field – something that is assumed to be impossible under general relativity.

"Third – and most significant – the speed of light is _not_, in fact, the absolute speed limit of the universe."

The intensity returned to Reeves' eyes – if it had ever left. No one else spoke a word.

"You have to understand what this all means. Overnight a host of seemingly impossible technologies suddenly become all too real. Artificial gravity generators. Gyroscopic inertial drives. Propulsion through microwave phase conjugation… _faster-than-light interstellar travel._

"It completely redefines our place in the universe. Suddenly our aspirations have no limits. And our horizons have no boundaries.

"This is what Sunfire sought to realize. And this –" He turned and motioned directly toward both of the aircraft – "is what they achieved: a combined air and space craft able to surpass the speed of light and powered by an unlimited fuel supply produced internally by a perpetual motion generator. The next and final evolution of the B-2 bomber – _the B-X._"

Reeves had never struck any of them as an orator. But he ended his speech now with a flourish, seemingly proud of how skillfully he had built to the final climax.

The expressions on their faces displayed varying states of disbelief, astonishment, and awed acceptance. Jeb, quite unusually, was slack-jawed and speechless, looking between Reeves, the aircraft, and back again. The other man stared straight into his eyes, his gaze full of significance.

"Think of every dream you've ever had, Mr. Stryder. This makes them all real."


End file.
